Elegy on a Shoe
by ardy1
Summary: AU: An easy-going entertainment columnist finds himself caught up in events more important than his usual fare, all because he fell for a woman's footwear - literally!
1. Prelude & Chapter 1

_A/N: Modern AU. Takes time to develop. If you don't have patience to read at least a dozen chapters, don't bother going further. Thank you! (first published 11/8/08, edited for clarification)_

_Disclaimer: Own nothing, earn nothing, suit worth nothing. All hail to the original character-creating author._

Chapter 1: Prelude

He had been inspired, he was later to say, by the subject's silhouette against his window one April morning.

Of course, a shoe was hardly the first article of clothing Miroku had cast immortality upon. His wit and deft hand for language had brought the modest camisole to fermented heights in his widely read column. He had even brought what he himself considered a "modest homily to a hat" to elegiac symphonies, at least in the minds of his readers and editors.

Still, the shoe _was _a bit unusual.

Even for him.

It had been a normal after-work gathering, the newsies and columnists splitting up to pursue their favored watering holes, secure in congenial company and potential leaks for future stories. Those with award-winning bi-lines showed their faces at the big-name bars, but everyone knew that real stories were garnered elsewhere.

Miroku had shown his face, gathered accolades for his most recent published triumph, and moved on. He didn't really like being what another era would have called a pulp journalist, but he had to admit he didn't have the nose or the ambition for the hard news pieces that drew headlines and Pulitzers. And he did rather enjoy his own mild celebrity status. He had established a more than reasonable income for what might best be called "personality pieces", those "up close and personal" bits that endeared him to local audiences for his ability to bring out not just the everyman, but those intrinsically unique aspects of life that made humanity feel greater than the sum of its parts.

It also did _wonders _for his love-life. "Ah yes, I _did_ write that home potter story whose proceeds finance school building on Bolivia's Altiplano. What an amazing person …"

On its face, there was nothing particularly remarkable or memorable about the shoe.

Aside, of course, from its position on the windowsill. He'd had to strain his memory a bit as to how it had gotten there.

Miroku was an early riser, regardless of how he'd spent – or misspent - his nighttime hours. Thus, as the sun rose above the ragged city skyline in a habitually hazy sky, he was helpless to avoid heeding its call, a lesson born of numerous heavily drawn drapes or even more heavily visited hangovers. As a result, Miroku's yoga mat held permanent place before the windows of whatever proved to be the east-facing room of his current apartment. Few of his lovers ever rose early enough to see him assuming "tiger scorpion asana," but then again, his editors were equally oblivious. Given the longevity of his lovers as opposed to his editors, the comparison was hardly incongruous.

So the shoe's attention-getting position was, in fact, more than merely remarkable.

Chapter 2: Introducing the Main Characters

She'd walked into the club alone. No, "walked" was an inadequate verb for someone who made his living exploiting language. She certainly didn't do anything so vulgar or mundane as "sashay" or even "slink". In this case, her stride was more along the lines of "commanded", "asserted possession", or, most simply, "claimed" everything and everyone on the premises.

Miroku's first _conscious_ image, therefore, was of the captain of a ship coming onto the bridge – he had to stop himself from coming to attention and was surprised to note how few others seemed to react to her appearance. For example, his drinking companions had found fault with his immediate declaration regarding the woman who'd taken a place alone at the bar. As the sportswriter, Inuyasha said, she was _pretty_ enough, but certainly not on the spectacular side that warranted Miroku's _usual_ distinction.

For Miroku, _they_ were the fools, and he decided that somehow they were oblivious to her commanding presence merely because that was how _she_ wished it. He, on the other hand, was wholly caught by her every move.

It was remarkable, since despite his awareness of women in general, and desire and appreciation for them all, he had _never_ been caught up in any _one_ particularly. In point of fact, his friends would have taken a second look at this woman had he persisted in his attention to her even a moment longer. However, some atavistic defensive instinct arose, as usual, to defuse his apparent interest.

At least, for the moment.

Inuyasha had bought a round of drinks. On a whim, Miroku suggested extending the offer to the lone woman at the corner of the bar, and Inuyasha had readily acceded, already deep in an argument regarding sport's recession-proofness with Koaga, the AP business writer. The woman, predictably, had at first protested, then with a shrug accepted. Immediately he'd moved to join her at the bar, amid low rumbles acknowledging his position as a master player. He consciously attempted to place all such thoughts behind him as he considered this woman.

There was a wariness about her that he expected and didn't worry much about. In fact, he approved. A lovely woman alone in a bar had to be stupid to trust too easily in her fellow patrons, and while he didn't exactly consider stupidity a _fault _in a woman, he somehow wasn't keen on seeing signs of it in this one. At the same time, the very fact that she was there at all suggested she was seeking escapism of some sort. Miroku was well practiced at identifying and offering women whatever escape would satisfy them.

He voiced his given name only, registering the lack of recognition of either his name or features with some ambivalence. Well, he knew he wasn't actually famous (if perhaps a bit notorious in certain circles), but he _was_ also used to seeing at least a hint of enthusiasm or at least _interest _when he gave attention to a girl. _She _had merely nodded to acknowledge her thanks for the drink, and told him to call her "Sango", in the most neutral of tones possible.

As she worked her way through her Kir he slowly nursed what, with the melted ice, had become a very watered-down unblended scotch. He did what came naturally to him, chatting about current events, new books he had either read or wanted to read, the value of standard cable offerings as opposed to premium channels, and who might next appear on the "Colbert Report" or "A Prairie Home Companion" – his standard first attack in trying to get a sense of _her_ interests and entertainment leanings. While she certainly responded, and definitely seemed to be warming up to him a little, he never lost the sense that this was a remarkably private person he was talking to.

Considering how slowly she finished her drink, Miroku was becoming increasingly stumped as to what she was doing there in the first place.

Sango did allow him to buy her another drink, at which time he got himself a club soda. He wanted to keep his head about him. By this time he knew that she had a brother who was an adjutant to an influential but rather unsavory general (his take, not hers, and he carefully kept his recognition of the general's name from his features), and that she didn't see much of him. This appeared to be the crux of her current funk. She had also indicated that she was a contractor to the Defense Department, and that for security reasons she couldn't talk about her job.

The wry smile that had greeted mild teasing as to DoD fraternization rules suggested she had no lover at work, but she didn't volunteer other possibilities. Miroku chose to believe she was, at least currently, unattached.

A small band was setting up at the opposite corner of the bar, and given the makeup of keyboard, standing bass and drumset, Miroku assumed tonight's fare would be old jazz. When the singer came out, a lovely young woman with generous curves and a ready smile, he bit back a smirk as he watched both Inuyasha and Kouga abandon their discussion to move closer to the band. He had seen this before; the two would vigorously compete for the girl's attention and become so caught up in their warfare as to miss completely their target's leaving with some other man. Often enough, _he_ had been that man.

He asked Sango if she wished to move closer to better hear the music, nodding at his two friends, but was just as glad when she demurred. Even so, he knew the music would inhibit conversation out of mere politeness to the performers. He wondered if he should suggest they go elsewhere already, or if jazz standards would provide an atmosphere that would continue to relax and disarm Sango.

It was actually the shoe that decided it.


	2. The Shoe

_A/N: Sorry. I'm working on a 25-page paper that is the bulk of the grade for one course – and preparing for 4 finals. God, I do LOVE school! I am already thinking about the next degree I want to pursue, if I can only convince my husband to finance it this time…_

_Disclaimer: Do mere names and mildly recognizable characterizations in wholly unrelated circumstances present copyright material? I haven't researched IP (intellectual property) laws much – aside from what is necessary to establish a ©. However, what I do know suggests that some defense is available in any case for noncommercial activity. Since no one is making any money from this – least of all me – well, we got that defense down!_

Chapter 3: The Shoe

Sango's legs had been crossed, nicely exposing a length of thigh through a slit in her long skirt that Miroku found flattering but insufficiently generous (the slit, not the skirt – he really _liked_ the way the skirt poured over her form). When another patron accidently jarred her barstool heavily in his haste to move closer to the band, tipping it dangerously, she had reflexively uncrossed her legs as she caught herself from falling, her relatively modest three-inch heel digging painfully into his loafer-clad instep as it braced his right leg on the floor. Miroku had reached out to catch her by the elbows in a steadying motion, but he couldn't contain either grimace or groan as pain rocketed up his leg and spinal column to his cerebrum. Meanwhile, guilt instantly suffused Sango's face as she in turn gripped his forearms to provide him with support as they wobbled a bit together before easing back on their stools.

"Ah, _damn_ - I am _so_ sorry!" … "Forget it, it's nothing!" … "Don't be ridiculous, I might have _broken_ something!" "Only… my pride…"

In truth, Miroku was hard-pressed to maintain a smile, while his companion's face was awash with concern. "Look, I _insist_. There's an all-night clinic a few blocks down, run by a friend of mine. Let me take you there and have your foot x-rayed or something. At the least! _Please_, I would never forgive myself if it turned out I'd seriously injured you and done nothing about it..."

Miroku considered the change of venue - from the soft lights, crooning voice of the jazz singer, and alcohol buzz he had been hoping to induce - to what would certainly be bright fluorescents, impatient medical personnel, and an all too rational evaluation of the evening's proceedings. He considered the conflicting yet all-too-obvious sensations two distinct aspects of his body were sending him, and the potential for pain-killers of the chemical _vis a vis_ the hormonal kind.

With something of a gasp, he checked his jacket pocket for his keys and wallet, and allowed Sango to assist him as he limped out of the bar.

* * *

Actually, it had been rather pleasant to lean on her as they made their way from the tiny parking lot into the storefront clinic. She was surprisingly sturdy – especially given those lethal heels – and Miroku suspected her Defense Department work was not particularly focused on intelligence activities. Mind you, her responses during their conversation reflected a bright, well-educated mind, so she _could_ have been an analyst of some sort. He'd have dismissed the idea entirely, perhaps, but the doctor staffing the clinic had that same element of physical competence about him – something loose, easy and confident, in the way Miroku was used to seeing with professional and ex-pro (like Inuyasha) athletes – at the same time somehow just a little bit harder and darker than one would expect from someone in the healing professions. That, and the bordering-on-intimate way said doctor communicated with Sango had all of Miroku's journalistic instincts aquiver.

Grudgingly – and with some relief – Miroku had to admit the doctor was more than competent. He'd suffered rather severe bruising, and could expect major discoloration and swelling - as well as fairly significant pain - from the incident, the former lasting as much as a month. But by some miracle of control on Sango's part, he'd escaped even a stress fracture. The doctor had commented in surprising and boring depth on the torque available to even a petite woman from weight distribution over the fraction of an inch that composed the average woman's high-heeled shoe. At what Miroku guessed to be probably five-nine in her stocking feet, given his admittedly broad experience, his somewhat limited ability to look down on her this evening, and the solid mass he'd come up against earlier, Sango was _not_ particularly petite.

He found something rather wolfish in the doctor's grin as to Miroku's narrow escape – it reminded him far too much of Kouga after the business reporter had demonstrated his affinity to Wall Street by soundly destroying him on the tennis court. Of course, Kouga had also been a Marine – Special Forces or something – and he had a tendency to let it show. Miroku had generally better form and control, but the stringer's speed, strength and stamina all too often won the day.

The doctor had wrapped Miroku's foot efficiently and surprisingly gently, reminding him to wait a while for the alcohol already in his system to dissipate before taking any of the codeine he'd prescribed. Sango had been in the room – perhaps that explained the gentleness – and assured her doctor friend that she would prevent Miroku from imbibing too quickly in the barbiturate.

Miroku smiled. Maybe the evening wouldn't end so badly after all.

* * *

So it was that he found himself guiding her into the elevator once they had parked in his assigned garage spot – Sango had again driven, and this time Miroku noticed how she showed no concern over taking control of either an unfamiliar auto or its five-speed engine. Unlike his friend Inuyasha, who had spent absurd amounts of time lovingly restoring an aged Jaguar into near pristine condition, Miroku was not particularly attached to his Audi convertible beyond its ability to take him place to place in reasonable comfort and style, but he did admire competent driving skill. He suspected Sango was a better driver than he was himself. Well, he probably shouldn't have been surprised, given the other elements of her persona that his generally observant brain had been methodically collecting and cataloging.

'What _else_ could she do well?' he found himself wondering as he turned the key in his apartment door. And just how _soon_ was he likely to be able to explore the parameters of that question? The doctor had afforded Miroku a cane without even looking at his insurance coverage, but Miroku had chosen to rest an arm across Sango's shoulders instead, keeping the cane mostly as a counter-balance. She didn't appear to object, and he decided it actually gave her comfort to do something for him. He would have liked to believe it also showed she was interested in getting closer to him, as suggested by her insistence on staying with him till he could take the first round of pain-killers. But, as he had anticipated in the club, Sango's attitude towards him had devolved since the accident; there was a crispness to her competency that had wholly put aside the woman seeking solace in an evening at a bar.

Well, there were more than a few nurses notched on Miroku's belt, as well as several doctors – including a rather well-known neurosurgeon (whose access to and awareness of the local for-profit hospital's practice of overbilling Medicare for MRIs had given the material for an expose well beyond the scope of his usual work. But that, of course, was another story). In any case, Miroku was, at this point, immensely satisfied just to have Sango in his apartment.

"I should probably just plan on spending the night here…"


	3. Curiosity, the Cat

_A/N: Okay, I read too much low-brow "mystery" fiction – it's so much fun! And yes, the folks who write it are all much more clever than I am. So we borrow a bit here, weave some other bit from somewhere else there, and thank the gods for fanfiction, where we pray to be absolved from all things litigious on the grounds that we have no commercial interests… But seriously folks, if there is nothing new under the sun, perhaps there are ways to marry these things that have yet to be fully realized._

_Disclaimer: See above…_

Chapter 4: Curiosity, the Cat, and to hell with consequences… 

It was her casual manner of speaking these words that had sealed her profession as some kind of spy or agent in Miroku's mind. More so, a spy who… for _some_ reason… was after _him_.

Mind you, in most cases he would have read her statement as merely a way of insinuating herself into his bed. But on this night, and despite the leanings of his ego, the more analytical aspect of his brain was simply _not_ convinced. Herr Doktor had been obviously protective – Miroku would have been an idiot to have missed those signals, _mano a mano_, and Miroku was _no_ idiot! Not the man who had dodged numerous brothers, husbands, and attorneys seeking…uh, damages and/or injunctions, of one kind or another.

At the same time, there had been nothing in Sango's interactions with him that suggested he had made any particular headway with her anyway. Oh sure, she had allowed him to buy her a couple of drinks; she had smiled and chatted with him. But _before_ the accident she had actually kept a remarkable distance from him, both emotionally and physically.

Miroku was an _expert_ at assessing this kind of stuff.

For the first time in his adult life, Miroku found himself wondering if things that _weren't_ going all that well were, perhaps, going _too_ well after all, confusing at that might sound at first.

"No, no, I'm perfectly fine here on the couch – you really _can't_ give up your own bed. Are you ready for the codeine? I think there's something here to help you sleep as well. Let me get that ready for you, too."

* * *

_Damn it, girl. Now you've made it really _too_ obvious. It would have been more convincing to suggest sharing the bed with me, with a shy smile or something… _

_Who is it that I have to worry about, anyway? Homeland Defense? DoD? CIA? Someone else in the alphabet soup that I can't even guess about? And _what_ the __hell__ have I done to put any of those folks on my ass? _

It happened sometimes to journalists. They got too close to sensitive government issues in the course of pursuing their stories. He'd heard about it and, of course, any number of such journalists had made their names on such stories. A litany of book titles (granted, a fair number of them fiction) ran through his mind as he considered the issue from the sanctity of his bathtub – ostensibly soaking his injured foot while she made herself at home. But as he scanned his own inventory of half-cobbled ideas and more-thoroughly researched columns, easily dismissing the general fluff he could turn out – and often did – without half-thinking, he could find nothing that would likely trip any wires on the Patriot Act or otherwise. Had he missed something somehow? Surely not – he wrote _fluff_ pieces, for gods' sake!

And yet, he was reasonably sure that in his living room was an agent of the government fully capable of breaking his neck – she'd already disabled his foot, now hadn't she? – just waiting for him to fall into a drugged sleep before ransacking his home of all its secrets. Granted, aside from a collection of sex toys, some rather more kinky than, perhaps, the norm, he didn't think he had any particular secrets that would bother him being exposed. Hell, the sex toys probably weren't _that_ much of a secret, when he really thought about it.

Still, he really _didn't_ like the idea of someone feeling free to invade his privacy.

* * *

When he emerged from the bathroom Miroku determined to lean heavily upon Sango, at the same time upping the amperage on his charm to its maximum extent. He had decided that she was playing him – had probably _been_ playing him from her entrance into the bar. The "accident" was no such thing, and the clinic would probably not be there if he checked tomorrow, or maybe the day after. After all, he'd been a regular patron in that bar for years and had never noticed the neighborhood clinic before. Therefore, he need feel no guilt for making the government, via Ms Sango, pay the utmost for access to his personal life. _Sango_ had placed herself in this position, not him. Why _shouldn't_ he take advantage of her as she intended to take advantage of his well-known interests?

Of course, the whole intolerable idea pissed him off.

Was he _really_ so easy to set up? On reflection, he had to admit he probably was.

As he worked to entangle Sango in the care-giving she'd promised at the clinic, he allowed his hands to stray over her person more and more intimately as the drugs supposedly took effect (he had palmed them before faking a minor choking incident before the bath – hell, he already appeared an idiot in her eyes, how much more of an awkward dork could he be?). He let his diction slur a bit, and pretended to be oblivious to his sojourns upon her person.

When she merely smiled – albeit, a bit tight-lipped – he found more confirmation of his suspicions. As she "helped" him slide beneath the covers of his bed, still wrapped in the dark silk of his bathrobe, he kept one arm across her shoulders, letting his weight drag her down across him as they both pretended to chuckle at his supposed awkwardness. His errant other hand cupped the firmness of her ass, giving a good squeeze upon its musculature to remind him that such magnificence simply did _not_ fall upon normal women.

Her responding yelp and grip on his throat brought forth his first genuine smile since they had entered his apartment.


	4. Deriliction of Duty

_A/N: I swear, it was a mere drabble that annoyed me that set me off on this pseudo-spoof. That said, I've researched the War on Terrorism, the Patriot Act, Signing Statements, First Amendment case history, and attendant subjects. I have friends who are journalists of record. So maybe I've let a little too much real-world creep into this fic, along with maybe too much of my own liberal point of view. Ah, what the hell – the whole point of writing fanfic is to put in what YOU WANT!_

_Disclaimer: No commercial claims made, no value in a civil claim against. We're all good…._

Chapter 5: Deriliction of Duty…?

It would be trite to suggest that from the moment Miroku's hand firmly _caressed_ her buttocks Sango succumbed to his charms.

After all, she had traveled throughout the Middle and Far East and met more than her share of forceful, attractive males. Then there were the Europeans. There was a _reason_ that French was considered the language of love! Really, comparatively speaking, all that the average American male had going for him was rampant health and vitality, and Sango had had ample opportunity to sample the best of _that_ through her DoD connections.

She hadn't liked this assignment from its inception. It was one thing to spy out the secrets of those who wanted to bring her adopted country down. She had no qualms about the requirements such undertakings involved, lawfully sanctioned or otherwise. But Sango had taken her citizenship studies and vows seriously, including the value of a free press. And while the frippery her current prey indulged in hardly rose to constitutional heights, she suspected he was also not likely to pose any kind of harm. She had read his work and, while finding it for the most part superficial, had to admit it seemed remarkably well-written and reflected a rather keen intelligence. Vague memories of high school civics class suggested there ought to be serious free speech claims here…

In any case, she couldn't see anything to condemn, so why she had found herself standing outside the bar he generally frequented she really didn't understand. Then again, a gen. ed. college history course on top of high school civics certainly did not make her an expert on the freedom of the press beyond knowing it was enshrined somehow in the First Amendment. Likewise, it wasn't her job to _understand_ her targets – only to determine their secrets. And, occasionally, to take them out.

He was better-looking than his pictures – the intensity and warmth of those oddly violet eyes escaped the camera – and while she was familiar with charm she hadn't really expected him to be so adept in his expressions of interest (and seemingly off-hand probing into what she cared about). Well, he was a successful journalist, wasn't he? Obviously, he knew how to draw a person out. All this, combined with his apparent sincerity regarding not blaming her for his injury, tickled her long-dormant conscience.

And something else.

Something to do with the speculative look she had caught in his expression several times this evening when he regarded her, a certain self-deprecation in his not asserting his own modest but very real celebrity, and definitely something to do with the way she felt enveloped in his warmth when his hand had rested on her shoulder – ostensibly for support yet unmistakably holding her close to him. His height didn't hurt - Sango never felt particularly feminine, but she had to admit a tall man could cast some illusions upon her reality. And as he pulled her down with him onto his bed she recognized a wiry strength beneath the debonair boyish charm of this notorious lady-killer. Hnn. By no means was his only exercise venue confined to his bed!

So when she found herself straddling his apparently groggy form, a decidedly un-groggy hand clamped firmly across her backside as he nuzzled along her neck, she seriously wondered whether it would harm anything to take some pleasure from that obviously experienced hand, those soothing lips leading the way for a decidedly teasing tongue and attendant teeth…

Wait a minute - hadn't the doctor prescribed a soporific?

* * *

******** "Miroku! Answer, you ass! I've met the most wonderful woman – even _Ella_ couldn't render 'Mack the Knife' with more sexy smarts… And _I _got her! I can't wait to show you what you missed out on, you idiot and – No, woman, damn it! I'm _not_ suggesting sharing you around or anything – are you nuts? Stop _hitting_ me, you crazy bitch!"*****************

******** "Miro-luv! The feds are onto you, now…" a range of giggles. "So anyway, they want a list of your sources – something about last month's story on inner-city charities? Look out, Handsome! Next thing you know they'll think you're an Islamist, and you know what happens after that…! Boss says to call him ASAP…" *********

******** "You fucking lech! Where _were_ you? That Inu-idiot took Kagome home with him! Blasphemy on every level and I was _counting_ on you to stop it if I couldn't convince her to go home with me! When you get home from whatever crib you crawled into, call me! He needs bringing down!"**************

******** "Miroku, if you give up your sources, you're fired. The publicity we will gain from this case is priceless, and I've informed the legal department to be prepared to go all the way to the Supreme Court to defend you." His editor, Inuyasha's brother, was always coldly logical in his assessment. "We've got several issues we can test the Court on with this one, and the spinoff on even one winner – or even a divided court – is a boost to our advertising rates. Even if we lose, we win, given the potential for national exposure. I've got an 10:00 a.m. meeting scheduled with Kaede to discuss your contract. I _advise_ you to be there."*********

* * *

Well. He _was_ a journalist – _of course_ he'd heard the phone ring! His livelihood _depended_ upon the phone, among other tools.

But _some_ things were more important than his livelihood, and most people who knew him understood his philosophy on this. After all, what was the point of an answering service otherwise?

Gods, she. . . was . . . _delicious_! And, surprisingly shy – given he was so sure she was some kind of a spy. She had been so… _hesitant_ in her responses – he had had to really work _all_ his skills – but, yes, in Kouga-speak the return had more than paid out on his investment! So much flexibility and responsiveness, when finally coaxed forward, had _more_ than compensated for his having foregone the codeine out of fear for anything else the doctor might have added. Of course, it had helped that he'd downed about a thousand miligrams of Ibuprofin while he was in the bathroom; he had been reasonably sure it would soon take enough edge off the pain to allow him to sleep once the adrenalin surge he was expecting from _pre_-sleep activities had worn off. In the meantime, he just had to be a little _careful_ as to how he moved that leg – and what was a little pain, given the pleasure to be had…

It wasn't as if Miroku was exactly a stranger as to the pleasure/pain principle. He had found it interesting, though he was far from a true adherent. As with all his dabblings, Miroku was a cherry-picker, carefully accepting that which fit into his always evolving world-view, and eschewing all else. Thus, it was fascinating for him to notice now, how the care - or lack thereof - he took in flipping Sango over onto her back – sent an answering thrust of pain from his injured foot before he planted his knee firmly between her still-clothed thighs, and how that had resonated in his groin, stimulating an arousal that had previously relaxed during his bath. Or, was it the presence of _Sango_ beneath him that had provided the stimulus?

Well, he would analyze _that_ later.

Along with the fact that his killer spy had allowed _him_, a lowly print media hack - while maybe hedonist extraordinaire - to flip her into a highly vulnerable position. Hmm. That too would bear thinking on – later!


	5. The Night Proceeds

_A/N: Oops, sorry for updating so late – I had this file on my laptop, which has been spitting problems since before exams. I finally remembered to download the original file just yesterday so I could provide an update. Hope you enjoy it. And yes, the true villain of the piece reveals himself…_

_Disclaimer: No commercial claims made, no value in a civil claim against. We're all good…._

Chapter 5: The Night Proceeds

Sango had had her earlobe nibbled before. She was reasonably sure _someone_ had licked the skin behind her ear – and points south - with something similar to that erotic abandon as well. Her breasts had been well-groped and nipples teased - in the line of duty and otherwise – on, well, face it, a few _too_ many occasions. As for ass-grabbing, she was _legend_ at DoD for the fierceness of her slapdowns. Sango was _hardly_ a stranger to groping. Still…

She had a hard time remembering just when anyone had managed such an extraordinary coordination of mouth and hands as to send her senses reeling – ah yes, now she had it. _Never! _

Oh damn, his fingers had finally slipped up beyond what she liked to call her 'holy-roller' skirt and thighs into her underwear (they were marketed as 'boy-shorts', which had always somehow assured her as to their asexuality. Apparently, that was no stop to Miroku.)

Said fingers had worked themselves within her labia, and Sango _whimpered._

He _should _be fairly deep in the usual drugged state, shouldn't he? Sango was no virgin, but she'd never actually spread her legs for her employers before, and she had been more than loath to do so for this assignment - although with Miroku's reputation it was certainly a risk factor. Having sex with someone in the line of work had always been a _possibility_, of course, but she'd avoided it to date, thanks to swift-acting drugs. But then, she hadn't actually been all that _attracted_ to any of her targets _before,_ either.

Grudgingly she had to admit to herself, as that errant tongue found its way back down her neck and along her collar-bone back to visit yet again points further south, that she was attracted to Miroku. Oh yes, rather more than attracted!

And, obviously, the feeling was mutual.

All the same, remembering his file, Sango pushed aside hopes on any _lasting_ reciprocated attraction.

* * *

General Naraku was disappointed. He had been _so _sure that the militant group who'd sought out his aid was bereft of all other sources that he was safe once he'd made his terms clear. Their numbers were small and their cause actually _quite_ limited in appeal. And yet, they were so very _fervent_! The information and materiel he'd leaked to them, mostly on their behalf and at virtually no cost to himself, had made quite a splash, both politically and publically, in their tiny corner of the world.

Desperate people were _so_ easy to manipulate.

He had been, then, disproportionately shocked to learn that not only had this group succeeded in reaching out to western journalists to seek a voice for their cause, but that they had found such voice within a highly influential, remarkably wealthy and surprisingly not _only_ liberal community (the liberals were always sympathizing with some group of losers – no one had seriously paid much attention to them since the sixties…). Said voice was a columnist surprisingly free of too much political tainting, a hack who made his living inciting sympathy for hard-luck cases of one kind or another in support of what was commonly called "the greater good". Naraku agreed with the analyst's pinpointing of the column's success to a generous interspersing of more lascivious fare, aimed at the wannabes and losers too inhibited to actually find out for themselves the realities hinted at so good-naturedly by the persona 'willing to brave all' in a constant yet always disappointed search for true love, with frequent spicing of witty commentaries on encounters with A-list personalities. It was hard to tell which type of story had the greater following. Certainly, the _newspaper _wasn't talking.

Naraku had put his adjutant to work on this development, citing a need-to-know in the overall effort against terrorism. Kohaku was blindly devoted to him (no doubt abetted by the young man having lost his father on 9-11 and his guilt/gratitude over his own near-miss; Naraku's having diverted him – quite deliberately, as it turned out - from duty at the Pentagon that day). Kohaku's research expertise had had no difficulty singling out and preparing an initial-yet-fairly-comprehensive dossier on the lone journalist who had brought the issue of one particular community on the Burmese border to the public's attention. And, just to compound things, it was an Islamic community.

Who honestly gave a fuck? It was Islamists who'd been responsible for the 9-11 catastrophe, fueled and trained by that now internationally recognized bastard – Osama bin Laden, and his money – right? How the hell had _anyone_ managed to garner sympathy from several highly conservative senators' wives and even the husband of a currently serving colonel? And these were only the most _visible_ tip of an iceberg threatening Naraku's position.

At first, he'd taken a rather perverse pleasure in learning that the journalist's family was famous for its liberal pacifism and associated early deaths. Although the fact of that apparent martyrdom had inspired a minor cult following for the family itself, it seemed to be something the current namesake refused to exploit. Ah, well then. He was already one up on his opponent, although the man quite publically followed his family's Buddhist traditions (not quite as susceptible of being tarred as an Islamist, but who _honestly_ gave credit to Buddhism on this continant?)

With equally perverse pleasure Naraku had launched Sango against Miroku. After all, Sango had questioned Naraku's control over her brother's destiny. Not, of course, _before_ she had ridden his coattails to the top of her field in a variety of unrelated missions, missions that had brought him recognition and advancement as well. The day she had transferred to a civilian agency, outraged at what she had perceived as his willingness to sacrifice lives for strategic advantage in that last – admittedly carelessly-orchestrated mission - he had sworn to never let her brother go.

The general had a greater goal in mind. And, honestly, if it took destroying lives, even those he had carefully built up over the years, well, there was something irrevocably sweet in the process; a hidden recognition of his own power. After all, what was more god-like than the destruction of human lives?

* * *

"Lovely Sango…," Miroku husked against her ear, trusting in the warmth of limbs entwined together to disarm any defenses a possibly uneasy sleep might have renewed against him. He wasn't disappointed. As if by instinct, that supple form followed as he renewed a slow dance across the sheets, the low rumble of his words resonating deep in her chest and radiating throughout her form in the most delightful manner as consciousness asserted itself.

It was funny though, how quickly one hand found its way again around his throat, while his own extricated itself from her luscious backside in defense. All before her eyes even opened…

Perhaps he needed to rethink his approach after all.

Like a general on maneuvers, Miroku instantly mentally reviewed the contents of his kitchen; women with morning-after regrets could often be disarmed by a lovingly-prepared breakfast, and living above a patisserie had proven remarkably valuable in achieving just such an effect. Not to mention that purchase of an espresso machine two years ago.


	6. Additional Cast

_A/N: For the moment, this is more fun than anything else I'm writing, including my legal research. So here's another chapter. I've upped the rating to "M" based on some content in the last chapter. Actually, given my own potty-mouth maybe it should have been up there all along. This story has morphed a bit in terms of the level of detail I'm adding to advance the plot's credibility. I confess I've always had a weakness for stories that are strong on such – I'm a huge fan of Artimus Fowl books! Of course, I also admire the spare style that provides mere hints and relies on the reader to supply the details. This was originally the latter kind of tale; we'll see how well it succeeds in following the lines of the former._

_Disclaimer: As always, no commercial claims thus no damages – an element of the infringement crime unprovable should succeed as a defense._

Chapter 7: Additional Cast

Having outlined her objective to the best of her ability, Rin hit the "send" button for an instant message. Granted, it was well after midnight, but she often caught Kohaku up even later. Yes, this could have been sent as an email, but if Kohaku was online then the IM would guarantee a faster response; she had done this to him on more than one occasion, and if he wasn't there it didn't really matter. But the connection was made, and she could see he was typing a response.

*Hey, slpy grl, 'sup?*

*No u don't. You're the one who objects to textspeak – give me sentences!*

*Fine. Guess I'm the sleepy one – only for you would I respond this time of night, so…

…what do you want?*

*Do I have to 'want' something?*

*Well, duh…*

*Argh. Okay, fine. Sessh came home with something he wants me to research. It has 'national defense' aspects, so of course I thought of you…*

*…*

*Seriously! Will you help me?*

*Have you got a thesis statement?*

*Yeah. Better. A full outline*

*Send it and give me a few. I'll get back to you with something soon.*

*Yr dabomb!*

* * *

In the current market, tracking charity funding was like watching jet fantrails – interesting for the patterns they made but nowhere near as interesting as watching their sources. And even _that _was mere fodder for book titles. Kouga had told Miroku as much when he first broached the subject with him last summer. Charitable giving always slowed with the economy, but since it was hardly a _leading_ indicator, Kouga didn't pay much attention to it. He wasn't surprised when the easy-going columnist continued to probe him as to the best resources for tracking such data; Miroku always had half a dozen stories going at any given time, and as far as he could tell none of them were deadline-dependent – a far cry from his own efforts. If Kouga wasn't at least on top of the market – if he couldn't be _ahead_ of it – he might as well cash in his chips and go work for a dojo or some mercenary outfit training hero-wannabes.

And ever since that time in Columbia when he had realized how tied in to currency arbitrage a certain drug cartel's decision-making matrix was, Kouga no longer wanted to be anyone's foot-soldier. Nope. Thanks to his forebears' tutelage and example, Kouga was a firm believer in the Market's ability to correct for errors, as long as said market incorporated – to the extent possible – the key element of perfect information. For Kouga himself, well, it was funny how a devotion to public interest had steered an ultra-conservative like himself into what was generally seen as a liberalist profession.

Even more funny was how a man who had ready access to some of the most protected conservative organizations in the 'free world' counted a number of rabid (his word, but probably readily conceded by their objects) liberals of the current generation among his own close circle of friends.

As he checked his emails and blog alerts before hitting the hay, Kouga found a couple messages a bit disturbing. There seemed to be an unusual amount of concern regarding the activity of a particular charity that – prior to his conversation with Miroku – Kouga had never heard of before. All of it was remarkably hostile, given its previous anonymity.

Kouga made a note to himself to do some research and then talk to Miroku about it. After all, he still wanted to ream the guy about abandoning him in the bar just when he was finally able to beat out Inuyasha over a woman.

* * *

The shade was crooked over the window, and despite the early hour the light arrowing in beneath it was strong upon her face. Reluctantly, Kagome opened one eye to contemplate a far too exuberant dawn while she assessed her surroundings. As her vision cleared sleep's haze, so too did her memory. Kagome drank very little when performing – she didn't like how it rattled her control over glottal stops (okay, really more important with opera than jazz but Kagome was a perfectionist), and even worse she didn't like how it affected her judgment afterwards. Granted, it had been a late night, but she remembered _every_ moment of it.

And some moments were quite astonishingly memorable indeed! Kagome looked around to see if the author of such memories was still within view. Ah yes. Lovely silver tresses, worn ridiculously long for a man, but she could hardly blame him. His eyes were closed, but the dark lashes and dark brows provided a lovely contrast with that oddly colored hair. It must be some strange genetic mutation – the dark brows and lashes belied albinism and nothing in his persona even vaguely hinted at a penchant for hair dye, despite the Japanese vogue his features would otherwise excuse. Kagome's lip twisted, remembering a month-long lavender look in which she had first had to bleach her own ebony tresses before adding what she had meant to become a signature color. Six weeks later she had practically had her head shaved in the interests of looking at herself in the morning without wondering if she'd gone on drugs.

But speaking of his features, with the sun tracing their outlines she recognized a distinctive cast that, combined with his unusual coloring, frankly, she was more than surprised to see beyond Japan's borders. How she had missed it the night before was a pure miracle attributable only to its blatant improbability.

And that, given the particularly conservative and highly influential family involved, yielded the only explanation; he _must_ be illegimate.

Secure both in the presence of her night's companion and her conclusion as to his place in her worldview, Kagome expanded her vision. A high-powered laptop of apparent recent vintage offset the cheap table it rested upon, while the mesh chair before it bespoke a decided interest in both back support and a willingness to pay for it. Kagome smiled at the label along one seam of the seat; Uncle would be pleased to see his custom creations had actually found use in the real world.

Although just how real world could this scion of Japan's elite society be anyway, despite his left-blanket heritage?

Kagome roused herself to take stock of Inuyasha's kitchen as the first step in assessing her new lover's lifestyle. After all, if he were a mere hanger-on as to those impacting current events, the caffeine content of his coffee stash would be the first indicator.


	7. The Importance of Breakfast

_A/N: We get into more character definition here through background presentation, particularly of our supporting cast. Not just is it fun, but it provides some needed context for future events. But it does make for a longish chapter._

_Disclaimer: A/U. Probably no resemblance beyond name recognition as to characters and, of course, no legal liability thereby. Oh yeah, and I ain't making any money._

Chapter 8: The Importance of Breakfast

He had slept little, but that was nothing new. Sesshomouru was a creature of strict discipline, and had been virtually all of his life. Pursuing reluctant sleep simply did not fall within the parameters of a rational use of time, so being once awake meant he was up for the duration.

Such discipline had been not only literally bred within him, but also nurtured for as long as he could remember. And even though he'd spent more than a decade on another continent away from the rigors of his childhood, he saw no reason to change the habits of a lifetime. Especially since the internet provided him with a profitable way to spend his sleepless hours.

Considering dawn's approach still lacked several hours, Sesshomouru stepped out of his home office in search of refreshment. At first he aimed his steps to the library and the antique linen press in which he stored his liquor, but the sliver of light at the foot Rin's bedroom door stayed his steps.

Rin was no longer the child he had taken under wing that foul winter night when, on an odd whim, he'd directed his limo to drive along the Embarcadaro instead of directly home after a long directors' meeting. For years it seemed she would gain no height – too much trauma and critical period malnutrition, he'd always assumed – only to shoot up five inches in a single year as she entered the private high school that had seen the exodus of his half-brother perhaps a half-dozen years before.

He could never explain just what it was that caused him to stop the car that night – something in the fact that she wordlessly smiled at him, perhaps – and gods knew he never repeated the act for any subsequent homeless person.

He hadn't asked for or expected her brilliance at research. That angelic smile had been enough for him, oddly enough. Still, he saw no need to discourage that determination to please him, and indulged her when it came to training courses. She could, after all, use her skills someday in the labor market if she ever chose to leave him.

He'd been offput, at first, at her tendency for late hours. His _half-__brother_, after all, had used those hours to cultivate the poor company that hung around promising athletes. It had taken several years for the young man to finally hit bottom and then, surprisingly, come out the other side.

He had been afraid Rin would follow a similar path. After all, his _father's son_ had fallen so far and, as far as he knew, _she_ had no breeding to recommend her otherwise.

Still, Rin's late hours had always, aside from an admittedly significant portion of time keeping up social contacts, been spent actually productively surfing the 'net in search of making her school reports that much better. Frequent examinations of her computer's buffers had always reassured him that she was not falling prey to exploitation or corruption. Or so the young genius he'd hired away from an on-line game developer assured him.

When she was fifteen he'd given her his first research assignment.

* * *

For once, Inuyasha had taken a page out of Miroku's book, having risen well before sunrise in his awareness of the need to supplement his home kitchen stash: Inuyasha cringed to imagine Kagome's response to a fridge full of beer and a concomitant freezer consisting of nothing but frozen dinners. Without even speaking he'd cuffed Miroku in his imagination for not mentioning the need to plan ahead!

The patisserie Miroku lived above was only a block or so away – he'd covered the distance in no time worth mentioning. The pretty blond at the counter blandly advised him as to cream-filled croissants, "western" egg-and-sausage filled burritos, and a kick-ass muffin based on corn flour and fresh green jalapeño, added to the bake along with jack cheese at the last moment. She bobbed probably equally eclectic and imported boobs provocatively at him. Obviously, the girl was used to supplementing her personal contacts with her job. A less besotted Inuyasha might realistically have found Kagome at a severe disadvantage!

However, blond bimbo had not given Inuyasha the tumble of his life, and he was more than prepared to wager the natural origin of Kagome's lovely breasts against all comers. After all, he claimed intimate knowledge as to their contours, consistency, lack of scar tissue, and skin tone. No, Inuyasha went much further than that – he claimed ownership.

Nonetheless, he happily bought an insulated box of Columbian roast from said bimbo, as well as an assortment of muffins and an Italian ham-and-asiago panini sandwich that he wolfed down on the way home. He'd availed himself of more than a handful of creamers and sugar, and decided that if Kagome liked morning coffee he would have to spring for a machine like Miroku's. He'd always been content with tea himself but he could appreciate others' needs. For example, while Miroku generally rose early enough to join Inuyasha on a morning run, that is, if he was _willing _to run, then he was usually hungover and desperate for a coffee fix before going anywhere (Miroku actually only _occasionally _joined Inuyasha in his early morning runs, as he generally had other exercise opportunities in mind that Inuyasha could usually only dream about).

Speaking of which, he dumped his morning purchases on the kitchen counter and quietly re-entered his bedroom. Without even thinking about it, he shed his sweats and slid back beneath the comforter to curl himself around the limpid warmth of the sleeping woman in his bed. Almost equally quickly he succumbed to the peacefulness of her presence there, and resumed his own slumbers.

He didn't even notice the message button on his phone flashing.

Miroku shut the door behind Sango with real reluctance.

* * *

Admittedly, she had relaxed again beneath a barrage of almond croissants, cheddar and jalapeño muffins (granted, the patisserie was hardly purist in its influences), and bagels boasting lox, tomato and onion choked by creamcheese (ibid, previous comment). She had happily slurped down French roast lightened to a creamy chestnut by the machine's steamed half 'n half. All without expressing any qualms as to calories consumed or transfat content.

_God._ This was a woman he could easily consider waking up to forever!

Of course, Miroku was not so stupid as to assume her night's behavior was standard – haven't we already mentioned his ability at escaping litigious family members? And actually, it wasn't like he ate this well for breakfast every day either!

In deliberate refusal to contemplate the issue further under highly prejudicial circumstances, he let his brain refract the image his _pre-Sango_ morning exercise had incised upon his retinas, thanks to a cloudless dawn and the somewhat inexplicable presence of a shapely court shoe centered on the windowsill. Inexplicable given the reality that, despite a ridiculous number of women having shed footwear and more in his apartment over the years, the like had never occurred before. Mind you, it had been _her_ shoe, which was also influential.

That having been established and set aside, Miroku considered the image conceptually.

He rather liked the lines presented, the contrast of black leather and almost white light, framed by the soothing moss wall color (_he_ thought of it as soothing, anyway) muddied into dark taupe by morning sun's dark shadow. While he liked mules – their backless aspect was undoubtedly sexy – the restraint suggested by a sling or, even better, an enclosed heel that dropped immediately to bare the instep on both sides in teasing parody of… more substantial body parts, yes, that was it. With precision Miroku dove upon his laptop, fingers flying as he threaded words together into an image as evocative of sex and, more explicitly, his night's activities than he would have dared admit to.

And of course, as he continued his metaphorical exploration of the dangerous worlds suggested by women's footwear, he found himself caught by an odd proposition. Surely the wearing of such a shoe must _hurt_ – Miroku cringed at the thought of pronating his own toes at such an unnatural angle; elevating his heel to contract his Achilles tendon and depriving his medial collaterals of firm achorage and support – and yet women _danced_ thus. His memory caught on a Rogers-Astaire clip where she echoed her partner's every step – backwards and in heels! Why would anyone put themselves through such torture!

Miroku smiled slowly, eyeing the swollen band of muscle encompassing his own injured instep. This would be a fun column to write!


	8. Back to Business

_A/N: These next chapters give us more on the supporting cast – I think I may have taken too much fun in translating characters from feudal Japan to 21st century America…_

_Disclaimer: Own nothing, earn nothing, suit worth nothing. All hail to the original character-creating author._

Chapter 9: Back to Business

Inuyasha yawned mightily as he tied the drawstring on his sweatpants again. He'd had some vague awareness when Kagome had left the bedroom, but it had taken probably a good fifteen minutes before he could summon the will to coalesce that awareness into full wakefulness. Odd that. He'd always thought of himself as a light sleeper, but something about her seemed to effuse peacefulness into his own soul.

Still, it was with some trepidation that he emerged into the doorway of his galley-style kitchen. Kagome had found plates and accoutrement to better display his breakfast offerings. Likewise, she'd found the decrepit toaster oven Miroku had bequeathed him when his friend had upgraded, and his sensitive nose was assaulted by the aromas of onion and toasting bread. He had only bought one onion bagel, and it seemed that she'd copped it right off, one hand cupping the miniature plastic container of smoked salmon and cream-cheese spread possessively as she eyed the grease stained window of the oven.

He followed her gaze with some bemusement. Next he would be buying capers and anchovy paste, and he'd need one of those funky ceramic-bladed knives with the colorful plastic handles! Then again, if that would keep Kagome coming back…

And yes, she _was_ a coffee drinker, lavishing astonishing kisses upon his person once she'd realized he had risen early to provide her with a caffeine infusion upon her own wakening. The array of carbs for her selection apparently paled in comparison to the aroma of coffee once he had unscrewed the container's top. He did manage to take note of two containers of halfn'half emptied before she'd tackled him against the counter between the kitchen and dining room that Inuyasha had never used.

He had called Miroku at some point after Kagome had kissed him into wakefulness, regarding their standing as more-honored-in-the-breach agreement as to a morning run. For the first time, Inuyasha was the first to break the agreement and, again for the first time, understood just how idiotic such an agreement had ever been! It never occurred to him to wonder if Miroku was even available.

Kagome was tickled.

Her new man clearly was _not _used to having anyone over. Likewise, he was prepared to go to extravagant lengths to make her happy. Frankly, she liked such idiocy on her behalf.

* * *

Kaede sat back against the stiff back support of the sofa in Sesshomouru's office. It was a Frank piece, clean lines relatively recently upholstered in understated butter-soft and butter-colored leather that remained consistent with the original design. It might have appeared a bit cold, but she appreciated both its seat height and relatively shallow depth, all while attaining comfort overall. She remembered Frank, although she had been a very young woman indeed when he'd taken the design world by storm, and could not then have afforded any of his work. In any case, for a woman of her age the sofa gave nice support and presented no particular difficulty in raising herself from it.

Kaede appreciated the discreet attention to such detail that Sesshomouru gave to his office. She also took note of the rather more opulent club chairs that framed and complemented the sofa, and suspected her host would guide guests to such seating as suited his intentions. After all, a little too much comfort could go a long way in disarming one's opponents.

She sipped at the jasmine-scented tea and wondered just how late Miroku would be to this appointment. She, of course, had been precisely eleven minutes early – not enough to be rude but sufficient to instill just that little bit of fluster or concern at her early appearance on the part of staff, if not her host.

As if she could ever catch Sesshomouru at all unawares.

Which was why she wholly expected Miroku to be late. He'd been publishing on a free-lance basis since high-school, and prided himself even then on finely balancing understood authority with a conman's grace at skipping over the rules (an attitude which in those early days tended to cover fairly well for an honest lack of knowledge as to the "rules" in the first place). Oh, he wouldn't be late enough to actually piss Sesshomouru off, but he would walk in _just_ enough past the appointed time to offset the balance of power in his favor – the diva appearing on stage just a heartbeat late enough to infuse everyone with relief.

Then again, he'd been working for Sesshomouru for two years now – would he really still think such tricks would gain him the advantage?

Kaede had liked the boy ever since Inuyasha had brought him back home more than a year before the young writer had signed himself up with her agency, when all he'd known about _her _was that the loud and generally lonely high school athletic star he'd befriended rented a room in her house in north Cambridge.

It was eight minutes _past_ the hour when Miroku followed Sesshomouru's secretary into the office to greet her effusively. Kaede suspected he'd spent a good three minutes cozying up to the secretary, and likewise suspected the effort was not new, based on the lack of blush on the girl's face when she showed him into the office, as well as her distinct wink and smile. The young man was far too good-looking and charming for his own good. And he _knew_ it, which only made it all worse.

Still, he had met his match in his senior editor and publisher. Kaede looked forward to the meeting.

* * *

As he had anticipated, Sango's "neighborhood clinic" had evaporated with the morning dew.

"Stupid," Miroku thought. "They should have anticipated I would need the x-rays for my insurance coverage." Of course, they had probably assumed that since Sango had offered to pay all medical bills that, absent complications or need for him to seek further medical advice, why would he bother with insurance? Still, to Miroku's mind this seemed surprisingly sloppy all in all. Perhaps _too_ much interest in covering their tracks?

More to the point, he would have liked to talk again to Sango's doctor buddy – the guy with so much knowledge as to "accidental" foot injuries. Actually, he would have liked to probe Herr Doktor as to _anything_ he knew of Sango's previous life, and he had been quite prepared to use whatever facile excuse he could come up with. Miroku smirked. His imagination was facile indeed. He had been looking forward to another exchange with the virile medico from the previous evening.

Miroku checked his watch. He would be cutting it very fine indeed to make his meeting with his editor and manager, neither of which would it pay to piss off given the unusually delicate circumstances. He wasn't all that worried about jail time, although if some federal agency was on his ass that was certainly a possibility, despite Sesshomouru's assurances. But his editor's deep pockets would be crucial to a legal defense, not to mention future employment in the event the cards all fell his way. And Miroku was fully aware that he owed a significant amount of the premium he received for his writing – both from Sesshomouru and other publications – to Kaede's careful positioning and recommendations over the years. After all, it was she who had first recognized Miroku's particular flair for balancing superficial charm with "feel-good" enterprise.

He grinned. Sure, Kaede knew he might be somewhat lacking in personal morals, but she also recognized that he had a sure hand on the pulse of what the public considered worthy, and a real gift for articulating it. Kaede was far too good of a businesswoman to pass that kind of talent up over some minor ethical lapses. And she'd been managing him for a long time, now – he didn't want to disappoint her.

As Miroku limped back to the street and his parked car, another thought breached his carefully-guarded mental perimeter. Perhaps he had been _meant_, all along, to question last night's happenings.

Last night he had met a remarkable woman. Through extraordinary circumstances, they had encompassed a night together. Miroku's post-yoga-and-breakfast shower had, by deliberate effort, been rendered thought-free as the lapsed-neophyte monk practiced disciplines a far too unharmonious youth had rendered necessary for his own sanity. Still, as the sun crawled across the sky, he had found his mind far too caught up by the woman herself when he should be concentrating on the mystery she presented.

For all Buddha's teachings, attachment and regret crawled across his soul.


	9. Tangled Webs and Whatnot

_A/N: Time for Sango to make a reappearance. But I must confess I've been having a lot of fun weaving in other cast members to this story. At first I hadn't planned to really give any attention to anyone but Sango and Miroku, which would have made this a fairly quick tale of seduction, misunderstanding, epiphany, atonement and reconciliation. But hell, how much fun would that be, anyway? No, better to inject some intrigue and bedlam in the mix, even though it does distract a bit._

_Disclaimer: Just cuz I don't own the characters does not mean I can't speculate on their actions; although admittedly posting such speculations does present a conundrum at law. But, since I'm claiming nothing in the way of rights or remedies, I'm sure we don't need to go there…_

Chapter 10: Tangled Webs and Whatnot 

Half an hour under the hottest shower her apartment's system would provide had yet to rid Sango of Miroku's touch. She suspected that the man had scalded her flesh with his expert love-making far too deeply for such superficial treatment. What she needed was distance and time.

Not to mention time to digest a truly remarkable breakfast. Sango had been aware when Miroku had left her side just after dawn broke, but when she had stealthily poked her head into the living room a few minutes later, she had been astonished to see his lithe form gracefully posed upon a yoga mat, handsome face already in that oddly blank stare of relaxation only the most adept at meditation ever really achieved. Sango knew – she had trained for years and, having never managed to actually meditate worth a damn, recognized the accomplishment in others.

She had gone back to bed. Only to awaken an hour or so later to the sound of coffee beans meeting their highest calling in an electric grinder and the smell of toasting bread… Leaving his apartment shortly after breakfast she was still wondering when he had managed to go out and garner the breakfast feast without waking her again. Her quick survey of the apartment while he was in the bath the night before had yielded, besides the basic layout and the fact that the old drop-front desk in the living room housed both his laptop and a drawer-full of unsorted flash-drives (annoying that – she had been hoping to find a man methodical in his filing, which would make a search both easier and faster), a kitchen whose contents were Spartan as to quantity yet indicative as to their owner's eclectic tastes:

For example, the fridge housed little more than a couple containers of low-fat yogurt juxtaposing a quart of half-n-half (he saw no contradiction there?), an unopened bottle of French sauterne keeping company with a half-empty bottle of a California chardonnay, three cans of club soda, and a single microbrew beer bottle. Various drawers held the remnants of a locally produced bleu cheese and an imported brie, a single container of prosciutto and another - nearly empty - of mixed greens. Clearly, he had either called out for a substantial delivery or had gone out himself. Sango was reasonably certain she would have heard the buzzing of the intercom for any delivery, but even her well-trained ears might have missed the sounds of the front door if he were making a determined effort to let her sleep.

So what had happened to her famous instincts? Yes, yes again. She needed some time to rethink everything that had happened since she met him. Well, since she had seen nothing for Naraku to be concerned about, such respite _should _have been easily achieved.

Except, her logical mind insisted, that the reason for such absence of evidence could all too easily lie in the fact that she'd had no opportunity to actually search for such, so busy she had been with her subject. Worse yet, said subject had somehow managed to avoid her covertly investigating his home altogether (not to mention exiting the abode to gather provisions to distract her yet further, all without rousing her. Well, without awakening her – arousal was an altogether different proposition). Sango shivered as she remembered the way Miroku's hands and lips had traveled over her body as she waited for him to succumb to somnambulism.

Which reminded her. Yes, there _were_ people naturally resistant to the sleeping drugs. Odds were he wasn't one of them. Which meant he had anticipated her attack and had found means to subvert it. The logical act of a _guilty_ man.

She wanted to believe the irritation such thinking engendered reflected primarily the insult to her pride at having been detected and then her disappointment in her faith in her fellow man. But a very distinct aspect of her being objected to the thought that a man who could make her feel so… so _complete_… could be such a villain.

Sango swallowed hard and then faced her computer with resolve. Just _how_ could she phrase her report that it would not only _not _cast her as a complete failure but _also_ position her as the best agent to continue the investigation? Remembering murmurs regarding budget issues she emphasized the effort already expended, and recognized not just knowledge gained but intimacy established – without admitting that she'd actually _slept_ with Miroku. Hell, she didn't need an official record of _that_ anywhere, and as far as she could see none was actually required! So she focused her report on latent ambiguities of the investigation to date and a recommendation for further research, volunteering – no, recommending herself given her progress on insinuating herself into his social circle, as documented by such and such...

Sango shrugged. Maybe it was an act of masochism, or maybe sheer revenge. But she really, _really_ wanted another opportunity for an intimate exchange with Miroku.

* * *

To Miroku's eye, Sesshomouru's office was the plush embodiment of every power-hungry, anally-retentive and compulsive workaholic editor's dream. In short, there was nothing particularly comfortable about it at all, despite its beauty and air of money spent; it was all sleek surfaces and subdued colors, such as close-grained ash and chrome finishes. The only bright spots - the art and flowers, were, of course, distinctively Japanese, minimalist, and somehow _just_ short of soothing. Miroku was sure the defect, if you could call it such, was deliberate – Sesshomouru's décor reflected him perfectly. It was superbly individualistic and yet left you with nothing to really grasp.

Still, unlike most editors, there was absolutely nothing manic about Sesshomouru – something about being the calm eye of a hurricane generally came to mind when one thought of him, although the image was not quite, well, _lethal _enough.

Miroku had always wondered just how such a stoic individual had found himself caught up in the hectic world of the newspaper business. That is, he had wondered until one particular day…

_Back in his college days Miroku was still looking for his niche, still ambitious enough to try any angle. As far as he knew, no one but himself had seen his interview outline for this particular political informant – hell, no one else even knew of his existence. The story involved local politics, and a still idealistic Miroku saw in it a good opportunity to draw connections from the local to the larger world. Kaede's contract had given him a free rein on stories to write as she established his reputation. But on this one he couldn't find his usual humanist angle – there was absolutely nothing redeeming in the corrupt member of a certain board of supervisors involved, and the informant from within the inner circle was probably even more corrupt. Miroku had figuratively held his nose as he took notes. Disgusted overall, when he'd fallen ill with flu literally the day he'd scheduled an interview with the board member he honestly hadn't regretted the decision to send an email directly to the senior editor for help, research notes attached. Maybe he'd actually hoped Sesshomouru would cancel the story rather than assign it to a news reporter instead of his fluff columnist. As he felt like he was hacking out his lungs, Miroku hadn't much cared._

_He'd expected the editor to protest vehemently, to perhaps deny signing off on various expense vouchers – especially those associated with the abandoned story. He'd expected to have to give Kaede the next half dozen or so stories to pitch elsewhere at whatever price they could fetch, and be grateful for whatever was left after her commission._

_What he __hadn't__ expected was for Sesshomouru to confront the errant supervisor himself, apparently milking him of confessions only hinted at in Miroku's notes. The headline, under the editor's own byline, baldly stated the supervisor's resignation amid investigations by the attorney general from an angle Miroku had only seen on the periphery. He was just as glad, because it opened the way for his informant to be investigated without Miroku's having to reveal squat of his own investigations or sources._

And that day he'd understood what drew Sesshomouru to the news business; it was the lure of a hunter to its prey. The cacophony of the business itself, its incessant deadlines, balancing of priorities, and constant tug-of-war between commerce and public service was all just part of the package that made the hunt interesting.

As he watched Sesshomouru enter his own office to discuss this issue of government investigation into Miroku's stories, he wondered what the actual prey would be this time, and just how worried he should be.

* * *

Shippou pulled up Miroku's profile on his database, although he already knew the basics by heart. The guy had this great persona out there, finely honed to charm the ladies and maintain his job prospects – he shifted screens to consider his tally of Miroku's acceptance rate at publications other than those controlled by Sesshomouru (Sessh had right of first refusal, after which Miroku could peddle his wares anywhere he wished) and nodded acknowledgment to the bidding war most of his stories engendered. Granted, he was privy to this information solely through having hacked Kaede's database, but what she didn't know wouldn't hurt her, right? Miroku was actually _worth _the premium Sesshomouru paid for his stories.

Miroku may only have intuited as much, since it wouldn't necessarily be in Kaede's interests to tell him as much. But Sesshomouru knew it, thanks to Shippou's constantly updated analysis.

Which, of course, also made Shippou worth a premium, since he provided such expertise on the full range of writers in Sessh's stable, not to mention keeping tabs on the fortunes and futures of other established names in the industry as well as upcoming newcomers. Shippou felt no compunction in adding a surcharge for tracking college publications. Even with the algorithms he'd written he still had to _read_ half the submittals that popped up on his screen, only proving yet again Miroku's flippant remark that mechanics could _never_ measure genius; that took either worship or other genius.

Well. The writer dude was probably right, although Shippou doubted that Miroku was actually a genius. Now, _he_ himself had been certified as just such, and even under Miroku's terms he thought that probably qualified him to judge the older man.

Still, genius or not, the guy was a solid writer.

But Shippou was actually more interested in his reputation as a ladies' man. Inuyasha had been a complete washout as far as that went, despite Shippou's having been assured by qualified judges – several female staffers – that the senior editor's half brother rated almost as high on the "hotdom" scale as the editor himself. And while the adolescent redhead had been keeping tabs on other members of his employer's establishment he honestly hadn't seen anyone as promising as the fluff columnist to assist him in his endeavors (self-same staffers acknowledged Miroku's rating exceeded Inuyasha's because not only was he excellent eye candy but he was sweet and approachable; however, they credited him with being too much of a player to be trusted) .

With a grim smile, Shippou focused an emerald gaze on further analysis into his current hero's background. You didn't get credit for being a player without building up an impressive success rate with the ladies. Shippou was interested in success.

He did wonder a bit if he shouldn't be talking to Rin about all this. The two had established a good relationship – no one knew her computer interfaces the way he did, after all, and he took seriously his responsibility to keep her informed as to the best upgrades, firewalls, search protocols, etc. And she was, after all, a girl. When it came right down to it, Rin could probably advise him better than anyone else as to how to approach the woman of his dreams…

…okay, maybe he was being a bit premature. He and Kirara were both still in high school, and maybe it was a bit much to call a high school girl a woman. Shippou breathed heavily as he considered her dark eyes framed by almost platinum blond hair and a diminutive form. He wanted to _cherish_ her.

It would take another guy to understand that, though, so Rin probably couldn't help. No, he needed an expert's advice as to how to approach a girl first off. Despite his playboy reputation – perhaps because of it – Miroku was hands-down the best authority on initially winning a girl's confidence. So it behooved him to run interference between Miroku and his boss, while keeping the reporter firmly in mind of just what a favor Shippou was doing him.

And, since it would do no harm to attack on more than one front, the computer guru opened up an email to his employer's adopted daughter.


	10. Chapter 11: Politics, Journalism & Law

_A/N: Okay, I got spooked by a nasty review, like some silly newb. I mean, I've had people tell me my stories were "terrible" before, and it flowed like rain off the proverbial duck's back. And many reviews have noted my vocabulary (obviously not always positively). But I gotta admit it made me pause to be called "incoherent". I mean, I've never been accused of incoherency before! A later, admittedly calmer, read of the review made me realize the individual was looking for hot citrus and found my rather clinical assessment of Miroku's and Sango's night together too, too disappointing. Alas. Well, my own experience tells me that grownups who are not too sure about the vast realm of judgment calls they should make on their actions do tend to look for some clinical detachment – often even in situ – as they seek to justify themselves. As two adults in what must be considered by both rather a rather morally ambiguous situation (far beyond two strangers merely deciding to sleep together) is it so strange that each should be questioning him/herself? And so that's how I wrote it. Anyway, thanks in part to the cool dowsing from my dear friend magnusrae, I'm over my review-inspired angst. More importantly, I do this hope this absurd confession does __not__ inhibit honest criticism. I write it merely to 1) excuse the somewhat longer than normal gap in posting a chapter here, and 2) to demonstrate that I take the time to seriously consider every review offered. ^_^_

_Disclaimer: No ownership rights claimed, no commercial gain anticipated. Thus no purpose to be gained in bringing suit._

Chapter 11: Politics, Journalism, and the Law

Kouga didn't like it. He'd researched innumerable institutions in his time and suspicious funding sources tended to be fairly obvious. At the very least, the regulations regarding reporting taxable deductions were clear and well publicized – most entities preferred the reporting requirement rather than seeing their contributions diluted. Everyone understood the concept of more bang for their buck, after all.

Granted, one usually needed to file a FOIA request (Freedom Of Information Act), which could literally take months to process, but perhaps the greatest lesson Kouga had learned as a government employee was to cultivate relationships and _never let them slide_! An outsider like Miroku could never compete with Kouga's digital rolladex, no matter how many staffers the insufferably charming dilettante slept with…

A review of funding sources did not explain the hostility that had sprouted on every blog he frequented on a regular basis to the Myanmar charitable fund. True, there were hints of government investigations, but as far as he could tell the trails were cold and insubstantial. Kouga smelled a rat.

Two years ago this fund was moribund; too much talk about how the building of schools and hospitals was actually spy-speak for underground military bases. Of course, since conservatives had embraced _stranger_ bedfellows in the decades-long war on communism – as distinguished from the current war on terrorism – and China loomed large on the Myanmar border, those bases _could_ have been supported by western dollars and the fund drive merely a front. That was how he'd initially assessed the situation when Miroku had first asked. He hadn't wanted to disillusion his liberal friend too much.

That all said, Miroku's article two months ago had approached the fund from the angle of Buddhist monks protesting, a fairly common element in the news then. But, leave it to Miroku to find an unusual angle – _these_ monks had, until quite recently, worked very closely with the local _Imam_ of a particular Islamist community, buying textbooks, lunches, and yes, the now somewhat ubiquitous student laptops that were the current darling of American charities. It was the _cross-religious_ aspect that lent Miroku's article its cache, not the computers.

Not surprisingly, Miroku's sympathetic article had spurred a flurry of charitable activity. At the same time, conservative voices fairly closely aligned to the U.S. military had begun speaking more loudly about the fund's ties to Islamic extremists. A week later, a suicide bomber had tried to board a subway in Yangon. Once disarmed, he'd implicated Miroku's fund.

Despite the wide play Sesshomouru's paper enjoyed, very few newsfeeds had picked up the former story, while every paper in the country and, as near as Kouga could tell, even the liberal blogs had commented on the thwarted bombing.

Oddly enough, he didn't recall Miroku commenting one way or another, although he had to be aware of the followup to his story. Kouga's lip twisted in a wry grin.

He spent another half an hour surfing the web, reading blogs and initiating half a dozen IMs within the broad range of contacts he'd made over a decade in conservative and military circles. Then he contacted his late father's friends by telephone. Some two hours later he poured himself a shot of Chivas and found his nose still wrinkling.

Yep. Kouga thought the whole thing stank.

* * *

Naraku skimmed through his morning briefing, confident that there was really nothing in the world going on that mattered to him that he couldn't put his finger on in time to control it sufficiently to maximize his own interests. After all, he'd built his career on incisive determinations at critical junctures. He was a crisis planner. The world was full of idiots who could build on others' formative work, but it took _real_ brilliance to build a plan from chaos.

Which wasn't to say he _couldn't_ achieve more long-range objectives when they were not conceived out of pure necessity…

But, what he was _really_ looking for was the report from Sango. Ever since she'd moved into other agencies he was dependent upon _them _for reports on her activities. For all that he might _plan_ her forays, he was still last in line to assess their effectiveness. For such a capable asset, such limitations irritated him almost enough to consider abandoning her use altogether. _Amost_.

When by noon she had still not reported in, Naraku felt more than just the quivering of impatience, for all his cultivated long-range perspective. After all, timing was a critical element of every good plan. And it was imperative that he discredit this stupid rebellion before it caught any more eyes and, especially before they used the weapons he had gifted them. If he could draw attention away from them – say, by drawing their most vocal supporter's attention elsewhere, or if necessary by discrediting him — in all likelihood no one else would follow through. And no one would be watching them or asking questions too soon.

He had the clinic's report – a detailed dossier of the drugs prescribed, likely distraction index from pain based on injury analysis as supplemented by sleeping aids, and predicted subject response was clear and reassuring.

So where the hell was Sango's confirming report and her subsequent analysis of Miroku's research files? Hadn't _that_ been the whole point of sending her in to assess Miroku's progress? And, given any failure there, well, while Naraku hadn't actually _told_ her that, if the initial results were inconclusive, he wanted her to continue the contact with Miroku until they could determine that his researches were harmless (or rather, until they could determine the exact nature of his research – Naraku would determine the potential for harm, to himself, of course). Sango was no idiot – she _should_ have been competent to extrapolate the mission beyond its immediate parameters.

No one had questioned the clinic's existence. The doctor's previous interest (could it have been called a relationship? Ah, they had been far too _discreet_) in Sango had been exploited without offering anything in the way of a cleansed slate, and the man had been sent on to another assignment. Equipment and other staff had been dispatched elsewhere on a piecemeal basis, and the paper-trail incumbent on all military exercises sterilized into near incomprehensibility. There would be no smoking gun.

To distract himself, Naraku turned his attention to his first adjutant. Kohaku's expression was a bit lazier than usual, although the attendant smile belied any sense of unease or stress. Had he done anything to encourage a sense of comfort as to his patronage that would allow anything less than full attention while in his presence? The fact that Kohaku was Sango's brother probably fed into Naraku's ire as he snapped acidly at the young man regarding the apparent lapse (and insured that most missions involving Sango were brokered through Naraku's second adjutant).

Swallowing a start, Kohaku rapidly fingered the keyboard on his laptop, and read off figures regarding the latest budget balances from Naraku's allocations in various sensitive regions before moving on to the latest congressional inquiries directed to the General.

Was there just the slightest change in pitch as he reported on Myanmar?

* * *

"The timing reflects your usual remarkable luck, Miroku," was Sesshomouru's first remark as he approached the credenza where an assortment of hot drinks awaited.

Miroku himself had already noted that there was nothing caffeine-free, that if you didn't like French-roast or Earl Grey you were out of luck, and that the single slice of lemon and paper slip of artificial sweetener – no sugar – indicated consideration for Kaede's preferences alongside an assumption that Miroku would fall in line with his editor. Having 'enjoyed' Sesshomouru's hospitality before, he hadn't expected dairy or even its substitutes, but Sesshomouru knew damned well after two years that Miroku liked light cream in his coffee, although half and half would do. That his boss was willing to cater to his manager's tastes while ignoring his own spoke volumes.

As for his editor's comment on "luck" – well – obviously that had nothing to do with the comestibles at offer in this meeting. He rather hoped that his luck _did_ cover ignorance on his editor's part regarding last evening's encounter with the comely Sango and her entourage of disappearing medical personnel. He definitely did _not_ want the _übermensch_ Sesshomouru sticking his starched nose into his personal affairs, even if those affairs overlapped a bit into his professional life. Miroku ignored his own assessment of lovely Sango as a government spy with a steady bead on his research files.

"Really, _Sama_, you coulda knocked me over with a feather when you said I'm being investigated by the State Department. I mean, my files on that monk story are open to _anyone_ to check over. Is there really something fishy there? It was a cousin of mine who brought the whole thing to my attention – he's newly indoctrinated in the monastery, you know, and probably doesn't understand the rules as to media relations. Seriously, Sesshomouru, is this _really_ a problem?" Miroku's smile could have been patented as to its effect, something between good-old-boy, pure innocence, and we-both-know-nobody's-gonna-make-a-serious-fuss. _Of course_ it was a problem – his editor didn't waste time just in the interests of terrorizing his staff – but Miroku was fishing as to the _degree_ of importance.

Kaede wished she'd had a digital recorder to document Miroku's performance, even knowing the futility thereof. She particularly appreciated his touch with the "sama"; he knew his audience well.

"I've looked at your cite-checks on the fund story, and they are superficial. Not like you, Miroku-kun, unless, perhaps, you have authority you cannot quote?" The editor sipped at his cup of Earl Grey, emphasizing his use of the Japanese diminutive "_kun_" form of address by deliberate _lack_ of emphasis.

Back in the early '80s, the first of the Asian Tigers had asserted ascendency by becoming an economic manufacturing juggernaut. The reality of their power was evident in the history of American car production and how quickly Japanese production plants sprouted everywhere outside Detroit's hegemony. However, news publishing was, perhaps metaphorically, the last frontier for Japanese foreign investment.

The Japanese subsidiary InuAmerica had started buying up American media outlets almost immediately after the FCC had opened restrictions on foreign ownership. Careful leveraging of acquisitions with domestic investors had garnered impressive market ownership over the past decade and a half. And it hadn't taken long for market share to follow. But with the turn of the new century Inu's management team had undergone significant shifts, favoring investor nationalism over domestic allegiances. Despite the management shift to a less neutral stance, a tradition of careful shareholder cultivation and political lobbying had left InuAmerica's media holdings virtually untouched by government regulation.

After five years of traditional Asian nepotism at the helm, publishing veterans understood all too well both the expectations as to stories presented and political tone accepted at InuAmerica papers.

A faint tic appeared at the corner of Miroku's mouth, but he waved away his editor's statement as if it didn't matter. "Certainly, a check of my quotes should dispel any genuine legal queries, and I have no qualms there. But Sesshomouru, your phone message suggested a Supreme Court case. Don't you think that was rather extremist in the interest of getting a meeting today? I'm always at your disposal, of course, but to take up Kaede's time…"

"Do you really think a call from the outgoing Attorney General is 'extremist'? Granted, he has no power now, but if you think the change of administration means cases disappear you are younger than I believed…" Sesshomouru turned his attention to Kaede, pouring her a refresher cup of tea and discussing the benefits of jasmine over ginseng.

Miroku stewed quietly. Obviously, Kaede had left him on his own in this. Well, that was only fair – he'd given her only the briefest of overviews on this particular story, insisting on shouldering all responsibility when Kaede had raised concern over Chinese hostility to the Buddhists. It wasn't that she'd disagreed in principle. No, Kaede always admitted in private to opinions she would never allow to be published.

"You _like_ expressing the 'loyal opposition's' voice, Sama, and from your cite-checking you know we're suit-proof on everything I've written. There's _nothing_ that would make it to a court of appeals, let alone the Supreme Court. So. Why are we all here?" Miroku decided to take the offensive.

Sesshomouru should have known better. As a fluff columnist who frequently peppered his stories with celebrity encounters, Miroku had become more than familiar with a generic libel threat. Thanks to Kaede's patronage, he'd taken a grad level journalism-law course for credit as a college freshman, so he knew well the _New York Times_ case, and it only took one or two close shaves to understand the lingo regarding "knowing disregard".

The editor glanced over at the writer and smiled gently, although such an unaccustomed expression couldn't help but send a chill upon everyone in the room. "Unfortunately, while truth is always a defense against _libel_ charges, it carries no traction when it comes to _treason_."


	11. Chapter 12: A Question of Hygiene

_A/N: For those on "author alert" tired of this story, I offer apologies. It gives me more current interest than my older "Avatar" stories at this point. But I __will__ finish every story I begin, one way or another. As for this, the story has already become terribly dense as to technical details of the War on Terrorism. My point on presenting such follows my liberal bent towards 'full disclosure'. I somehow still believe that an informed electorate will best serve the society politic._

_Disclaimer: No commercial claims, no copyright interests violated. No suit warranted. As for the site owners, well, we'll see what the future garners… _

Chapter 12: A Question of Hygiene

"Treason."

Sesshomouru allowed the pleasure releasing this apparent bombshell had given him to shape his features as long as the word itself echoed within his office. Even as astute an observer as Kaede might have questioned the reality of that split second, had she not known the protagonists of this particular altercation so well. Sometimes, she thought, the shelters of respect for the elderly – a label she generally dismissed – made useful cover.

"Well, at least we're out in the open." Miroku drawled in response, adeptly covering his own shock at the confirmation of a suspicion that had been eating away at his guts ever since he'd discovered the abandonment of Sango's clinic. "I'd hate to think I was risking prison merely for calling a fuckin' terrorist a bribe-taking piss-ant."

"Indeed. And much as I might enjoy the thought of crushing piss-ant terrorists I confess I would like to know how a modest monk-led charity favoring education of females skated so close to Taliban extremism as to rate joint mention on the APA? Do you even _know _how deep a hole that story has dug into your credibility?"

Miroku considered an unnamed agency's willingness to set up a fake medical clinic and compromise the morals of a lovely young woman (assuming such had not already been compromised beyond all hope), all in the interest of investigating an apparent charge of 'treason'. Apparently he was in a very deep hole indeed. And yet, as he ran again over every scrap of information he'd received – from family connections and otherwise – Miroku trusted an instinct regarding judging people that had been informing him ever since his father had died. It was the instinct that had led him to trust Kaede, among other things, and as far as he knew it had never led him astray.

The journalist shrugged. "Well, Sama, one _will_ get dirty uncovering any story, yes? And if excavations uncover ugly caverns that hide government secrets, is that truly treasonous? I guess this is something for the courts to decide, and we all know how unlikely a good decision will come out of poor information provided by one side or another, yes? I am _so_ grateful that the paper's commitment to the First Amendment recognizes my honest endeavors." Actually, at this point Miroku was _exceedingly_ grateful that he hadn't bothered to erase over his answering machine's messages.

Kaede, meanwhile, had a sudden flashback to the comments of a colleague – an anthropologist obsessed with Native American cultures – on the eclectic association of young people she'd come upon one night in Kaede's kitchen piecing together, of all things, pasta carbinari and fruit salad, over half a decade ago.

"_Dearest Kaede, it is always a pleasure to visit your home just to enjoy the feast for the eyes you manage to collect. Take the young god with the serine expression, yes, that one. The one whose eyes hint of summer storms in the high Rockies – doesn't he hang out with the amber-eyed hottie who dyes his hair shocking white? Forget what you think you know of royal associations between purple and gold, and forget that there's not enough anglo between the two of them to pass the old Big Easy test for 'whiteness'. Those two are gonna make waves, my friend, and we will be lucky to see it happen."_

"Then I take it we are agreed as to your lack of cooperation with either federal or local authorities," Sesshomouru's smile remained gentle, although somehow this translated as frost. "It would be very _unwise_ to speak to anyone without counsel present to advise you. Have you any qualms as to following the advice of any attorneys I will provide?"

Miroku recognized that somewhere along the line he had given up a measure of the independence he had treasured ever since he had started being paid for writing, but he also knew he was in _no_ position to hire a competent lawyer to defend him over what would almost certainly be a protracted trial and appeals proceeding. His assets were limited to an equity position in his apartment building, his car, a domestic stock portfolio better described as 'tidy' rather than anything more generous, and a fairly standard IRA. Yes, he also had some off-shore investments, but these he'd neither reported for tax purposes nor ever actually expected to see returns on in his lifetime. Given a lack of immediate family ties – Miroku had been orphaned before he'd finished elementary school – he had given generously to the Buddhist foundation that had taken him in as soon as he'd started earning on his own. He'd been named in lawsuits before, mostly of the libel kind, and had been quite content with the legal representation provided by the publishing entities named as co-defendants. As for the others – a few breach of promise and paternity suits – he'd gotten off with relatively modest settlements or a few hours' worth of attorneys' fees and the costs of genetic testing. Clearly, a criminal suit was outside his ken.

So he was in no position to pose anything beyond the simple fact that he'd followed up leads as presented and provided them for public judgment. He'd been publishing too long to not understand that, post-Watergate, the truth actually was a powerful defense, despite Sesshomouru's statement. Even after 9-11 courts had been careful as to allowing the executive branch to assert too much authority in the name of national security. Even so, defending against treason was no slam-dunk. "Since I'm sure the loss in advertising revenues for such a public relations failure would more than off-set the cost of very competent legal counsel, and since I do have a copy of the email from your editorial board approving the original concept, I am confident that your attorney will represent _both_ our interests as well as possible." Miroku was scrambling here, and he knew it, randomly quoting lawyers' statements he'd paid only a modicum of attention to over the years, and desparately praying for any relief.

"That settled, perhaps we can get to the point of why _I_ am here, Sesshomouru-_kun_?" She couldn't help herself – normally Kaede would never have rested on her position as a respected elder to assert authority over someone from such an auspicious family, and she had actually been quite pleased as to how Miroku had handled himself, overall. But there was no question that she had been called in to ensure that Miroku not only appeared, but did so in the proper frame of mind. And Kaede did not appreciate being used as a mere tool in even so adept a manipulator's hands as Sesshomouru. "I take it that as a token for Miroku's cooperation you are interested in purchasing additional first publishing rights? You _do_ understand that he will gain a certain notoriety with this situation, and that a writer with his following will be expected to bring out a book shortly? When I left the office this morning several houses had _already_ called… Miroku dear, unless you object I see no need for you to remain for this…?"

The writer placed his still half-full cup and saucer down decisively. "Kaede, my own, you have _all_ my confidence. Sesshomouru, I do have work to do, including stories for you to finish! Your attorneys have my contact information, of course. I'll be in touch!"

He was almost out the door before he heard his editor's final salvo:

"Of course, Miroku. Ah, by the way, I understand you are something of a favorite with the ladies. Given the current situation, you might want to be _careful_ as to which ladies you favor. If it is not already too late."

* * *

The best thing about the taqueria was, despite the lines that started as early as ten-thirty a.m. on a weekday, the speed with which it turned out remarkably tasty portions of food, all thanks to the tried-and-true assembly-line process that Henry Ford had used to create one of the last century's great iconic companies. It didn't hurt that back in the kitchen you could hear the sound of veggies being freshly chopped, meat searing, and – if you understood enough Spanish – amid the shouts as to perhaps less savory aspects of food preparation, the jocularity of a group of people who obviously enjoyed working together.

Inuyasha's beef burrito platter was in the process of assembly almost as soon as his distinctive head of hair was discerned in the doorway. The girl at the cash register had no difficulty recognizing Señores Miroku and Kouga in his wake, giving the heads-up as to grilled fish tacos with extra cilantro and chicken quesadillas - extra spicy - along the line. Regular customers could count on extras like more sour cream, guacamole on the house, etc.

Regular customers from the local media who also saw fit to mention this establishment from time to time in their columns also saw brighter smiles, name recognition, and a wink when their order was served with extra chips and salsa, not from the counter but fresh from the kitchen. Sometimes telephone numbers were also included, but one had to be careful about bestowing too much favoritism.

For once, Miroku was oblivious to the extra service his celebrity had earned.

He was trying to figure out a way to discuss his suspicions regarding last night's 'conquest' with his friends, without unduly prejudicing them against Sango. After all, what if he were wholly off-base in believing she was a government spy? Wouldn't his co-workers' hostility doom any possibility of further pursuit of her? And just when did what these idiots - who probably only managed to get laid once in a blue moon - matter to him? Or, for that matter, anything that his stupid senior editor said. Oh, and there was the treason thing.

So he shouldn't have been surprised when Teresa, of the oh-so-generous breasts, found herself skimping on her ladle of sour cream in favor of Kouga, whose smile was as wide as his eyes were attentive. The truth was, Miroku only came back to earth when the three of them were seated in their customary booth. Glancing askance at his fish tacos, it suddenly occurred to him that he had been unusually thoughtless today. Given his professional dependence on the good will of those around him, he made a mental note to pay more heed to his usual practice of soliciting the good graces of all he came in contact with, in the interest of both present and future gains.

His favorite taqueria was due for a discreet mention in his column, and with any other entertainment writer that he could influence. After all, this was a matter of almost daily livelihood! Miroku made a quick note on his Blackberry before returning to his friends' attention.

That Sango had managed to disconcert him so much was a danger sign. Well, in his experience, she was only a danger if he ignored her effect on him instead of giving it the full attention it deserved and working his way through it. The best way to deal with a life inevitably full of surprises was to do so with one's eyes wide open, _particularly _to the opportunities presented to enjoy oneself thereby. It wasn't exactly a word-for-word transcription of the monk's lessons he had been given in childhood, but, well. Close enough. Living in the NOW and all that. Sango may be – almost certainly was – full of risks, but she was also delightfully challenging, entertaining, and all-consuming in bed. Only a coward would allow the risks – once intelligently assessed – to deter him. And as far as he could tell, Buddha had never condoned cowardism.

That said, he focused again on the ongoing conversation between his two co-workers, fitting in remembered context as he ate.

Having listened to his voice-mail while Sango was still sleeping, Miroku was aware that Inuyasha had emerged the victor in the battle for the previous evening's chanteuse, and it amused him to see how diligently Inuyasha attempted to bring her into the conversation, while his rival Kouga's interest was on anything but. Another time, and he would have enjoyed letting this rivalry play itself out before him, but today Kouga's preferred topic caught his interest.

Koaga was hell-bent on recent internet traffic among conservatives that pointed towards terrorist affiliations in what had previously been seen as a spotless charitable organization. Since Koaga was by no means immune to the waves of conspiracy theories that tended to flow across the awareness of the well-connected, well-educated, and all too often not-well-enough occupied, Miroku generally tended to dismiss such ramblings as excusable from a man who'd spent far too much time dodging bullets that probably included friendly fire. However, this time Koaga's conspiracy theories involved a charity he himself had brought to the business writer's attention.

Miroku looked at his friend with rather more than usual affection. Koaga was, to all intents, a hard-headed capitalist. The heir to a closely-held New England manufacturing complex that still employed thousands and a military tradition, Koaga had been a shoe-in at the Naval Academy. The six years' of service he'd owed upon graduation were spent in elite ranks not subject to public comment, and a particular New Hampshire community still rocked over his decision to pursue journalism rather than either stepping into management in the family business or pursuing an MBA.

After two years' apprenticeship following the New York markets Koaga had been drawn west to California with the burst of the real estate bubble. After writing a few stories – captioned in the _Wall Street Journa_l and _The Economist_ as "front lines" in deference to Koaga's hard-edged emphasis on the destruction they had wrought on people's lives and local economies – a legacy of his military training – Koaga found himself inclined to stay. Three thousand miles of geographic distance worked almost as well as a military commission to keep his family ties off his back.

Which went a long way to explaining why his associations with Miroku and Inuyasha were so close. Although their schools were not in the same athletic leagues, Navy had a tradition of sending its athletes for "friendly" games to Miroku's alma mater. A rivalry started on the tennis courts had evolved into grudging respect when they'd shared the stage some five years later at a Bay Area Journalism award presentation. Koaga had pegged Inuyasha's family connections at that same banquet, which the younger man had attended in support of his friend. No stranger to aristocratic sabre-rattling, Miroku had ordered a bottle of Irish whiskey and proceeded to get both combatants stinking drunk. He had not been the least bit surprised when the two emerged from the banquet hall staggering, yet still rendering some Taisho-era ballad lustily at the tops of their lungs.

His own Japanese was quite rusty – generations of dilution with Italian, Irish, and the American mongrel had managed to preserve only a smattering of each language by the time Miroku was born – but he had nonetheless enjoyed what bits he could discern amid the pleasure of seeing people he valued accepting one another. Once Koaga had learned just how tenuous Inuyasha's own family relationships were, their triad was sealed.

Which meant, of course, an endless series of competitions in which each sought ascendency over his fellow. All in the interests of friendship, of course.

Miroku jabbed his plastic fork against the sides of the basket framing his meal as he met Koaga's eyes squarely. "Koaga, if anyone can explain all the noise, who better than you? Since I wrote that article, nobody has said squat to me." He grinned as the holy grail of every journalist's dreams presented itself. "Are you trying to tell me we got our hands on the tail of something big?"

Kouga allowed himself his most wolfish grin. "How do _you _spell 'Pulutzer'?"

* * *

"Actually, sir, he was surprisingly guarded. I don't honestly think another agent would have better success," _Certainly not after being already put on his guard._ But Sango couldn't actually say that, not if she wanted to remain on the case. "I can't help but think he might have already been somehow alerted. Perhaps all the press as to the bomber's attack being attributed to the charity he had espoused?"

Sango objected on principle to indiscriminate bombing attacks – it was one thing to take out a known enemy, and something else altogether to kill innocent bystanders. Sango tended to see family members as innocents, given her family history. Naraku knew as much, so she rarely raised the issue – he'd already dismissed it as obstructionist sentimentalism.

General Naraku had not admitted to being responsible for the attempted bombing, not to her and, she realized, never would to anyone. But after far too long working for the man, she smelled his tracks.

Still, it wouldn't be the first time a terrorist group manipulated kids into doing their bidding. She wasn't _wholly _certain. If she had been, Sango wouldn't have bothered informing upper ranks, preferring to settle things herself with a quick kill. Kohaku was talented enough and had a sufficiently clean record to have survived the taint of a vengeful sister. But she wasn't yet sure as to Narku's guilt.

In the meantime, there remained the distinct possibility that the so-called charity wasin fact a front. Perhaps the American journalist was no more than a chump recruited through family connections to give the spurious charity credibility. Or perhaps, given his remarkable ability to protect himself against her initial attack, he was far more important to a terrorist cell's success. In fact, from the perspective of a well-dug-in mole, Miroku's socially-responsible articles became yet another layer to a highly convincing front. They were the products of an incredibly devious mind.

A mind that could easily ignore pain in the interest of protecting terrorist activities. A mind that could recognize a physical reaction and twist it to his own benefit, including an array of disarming activities, such as presenting delicious food, searching glances and erotic kisses coupled with singing touches surely carefully practiced. Damnit, she'd _read_ the man's file! She should have _known _better!

Except, perhaps, that Sango had already exonerated this suspect by the time she'd seen him out of x-ray, and had perhaps hoped he'd been attracted enough to reach beyond the pain she'd caused him to make love to her anyway. Even if only for a night.

Aaagh! That was the thinking of a raw recruit, a child with no instincts or those too sensitive to the wild ether. Sango hadn't been such a child for longer than she wanted to remember.

Though that had obviously been the avenue in which Miroku had found a weakness.

As she now saw it, he had been a mole probably longer than he could remember. He was so bred into the art of deception he probably didn't even recognize honesty anymore. As she thought about what she knew of his history, this seemed to fit well. A man without family reliance upon some few moral and ethical guides, whose own antecedents were subject to question.

Why the fuck hadn't Naraku done a proper field search before sending her into this situation? It wasn't like him to cut corners. Had the budget shortfalls truly been so crippling?

Had she suspected as much, she would _never_ have surrendered herself to Miroku's touch – would she? Which kinda begged the question – had Naraku meant for her to surrender?

It was a distinctly ugly question. Well, Sango had faced ugliness on more than one occasion. It _did _occur to her that if her sponsor was dirty, perhaps even more dirty than her prey, where did that leave her to stand?

Fuck. If both were dirty, where did that leave Sango?


	12. Chapter 13: Reality and Recordings

_A/N: A rather long chapter. Well, I can't seem to come up with good stopping points for each perspective earlier, and I've committed myself to three different perspectives/time sequences for each chapter, structurally._

_The focus is mostly Miroku-Sango, with a giant dose of Kagome in between._

_Disclaimer: Any resemblance between the manga/animae "Inuyasha" characters and the following is entirely intentional, but without commercial intent or otherwise infringement. All, as it were, in good fun. Can we put down the threatening paperwork and sissors?_

_Chapter 13: The Past and Resume's Recordings _

After leaving Naraku's office, Sango thought back on the report she had submitted, and the likely consequences of it.

It had morphed considerably from the first draft – Miroku had grown darker in stature and more sinister, a far less easy conquest than she had initially assessed. As she wrote, she'd experienced severe qualms about introducing yet more suspicions into government records regarding an individual she had found herself responding to quite positively on virtually every plane of encounter.

_But_ she couldn't get beyond the fact that he had apparently seen past her subterfuge and acted to block her. If he were really an _innocent _journalist, wouldn't he have allowed her to assess his lack of dangerousness? After all, it was standard form that the innocent had nothing to hide.

Sango blushed. As if! Surely _everyone_ had some bit of dirty laundry they wanted to keep private, and what business was it of the government's to know anything beyond basic census data and tax information, anyway, as long as it didn't endanger national security?

Her report didn't outright accuse Miroku of being a mole – she retained enough native caution and rational objectivity to override the obvious emotional inclination, born of her apparently easy seduction, to assign her seducer demonic status. But she _did_ raise far more doubts about the journalist's motives than had ever been in Kohaku's report – one that had assessed Miroku as a ready chump for a sophisticated band of terrorists ready to play upon liberal outrage as to government clampdowns on political opinion, civil liberties, etc.

Sango's report had outlined her evening as the proverbial cat and mouse game – a give and take of sensual banter whose end was, from his perspective, delayed by his injury. She left out what she now recognized as his faking taking the medication, saying instead that he had been "too intent on charming her to even take the drugs offered to allay his pain." She didn't exactly say that they 'talked the night away' – Naraku would never believe _that_ of one of the most famous lechers of the region, but that she had walked a fine line between accepting his caresses and refusing him, trying to catch him up in the spirit of the chase while encouraging him to sleep and rest his injured foot. That _this _had taken all night, such that every time he had dozed any movement from her had awakened him… So he had called in a festive breakfast for them to share and, unfortunately, she had been unable to search the premises. On the other hand, she had won his interest, if not his trust.

She posed him as a man clearly interested in the prey that got away, with herself in the role of said prey. At the same time, she kept open a distinct possibility that in fact his actions hinted at yet greater duplicity. Perhaps he actually _was_ a mole…

The first time Sango'd read it through she'd nearly barfed at the absurdity. After editing out the more ridiculous of its lies, she'd compared it with the bald recitation of events she'd actually written for her own records, and the first draft; her first attempt to cover her ass. It still needed more work, but the essence was there.

Within a bare hour, she'd honed her report into a compendium of fact and speculation that she was ready to attest to under a lie detector test. After all, belief was a highly subjective measure. More importantly, _General __Naraku_ would believe it because it fit his own world view and because it would keep to a minimum the number of assets involved in this venture, and thus the likelihood of leaks.

Sango reminded herself that her entire purpose was to remain on the case so she could ensure that the real truth would emerge. Well, yes, and so she could see Miroku again.

* * *

Kagome shut the heavy door of the studio complex behind her. It was still well before noon, and only a few of the practice rooms would have been taken already; most of her fellow musicians would still be sleeping in recovery from the previous night's gigs, or busy at the jobs that supported them while they pursued this least financially rewarding of vocations. She spared a glance for the LED readout on the schedule for the two recording studio floors, and wasn't surprised to see that they showed fully booked. After all, hopeful performers were willing to spend far too much of their hard-earned cash for recording privileges at a venue that was known to supply really superb backup, as long as it was booked a week in advance.

Happily, today's bookings were all for instrumentals – her agenda was clear and she could spend the rest of her day on her own interests rather than singing backup vocals for some wannabe American idol…

Kagome looked again. Souta had booked a studio for the lunch hour, with no additional support. Apparently her brother would be recording something with his own accompanying musicians, or was fronting the booking for yet another of his music school buddies desperate for a leg-up.

She was only moderately surprised, given that he had continued to play his standing bass along with the pianist and drummer even after she had left the bar with Inuyasha last night. Her brother's deft fingers claimed residence in the city's orchestra as well as with the jazz ensemble. He was probably more sought after than she herself as an accompanist by various recording artists, yet he always seemed to find time to extend himself yet further. Two months ago he had started teaching a course on chamber music at a north bay community college, and last night before their gig started all he could talk about was a violinist from his class.

She eyed the schedule grimly as she approached the console to punch out whatever additional information was available. The studio, accepting privacy desires as long as signed contracts provided information as to bank accounts and balances, released only such information as the contractor allowed. Usually, in the interests of publicity, there was a plethora of that available. But Souta, having apprenticed under his sister, understood all too well that there could be enticement in the unknown, and had listed the recording under the rubric of "world music," headlining various talents. Included in the talent list was a violinist named only as "Shiori".

Kagome thoughtfully bit her lip. Souta knew she spent most of her otherwise uncontracted days here, and almost certainly would have expected her to see his booking this morning. Oh sure, he had seen her leave with Inuyasha, but he also knew that she was extraordinarily picky as to lovers. Souta would have been astonished to learn that she had actually not only accompanied Inuyasha home but had spent the night with him, enjoyed breakfast, and accepted dessert in the form of a pale pink ear shrouded in silver tresses while he played arpeggios on her body. Ah, the man was an athlete. Perhaps the more appropriate metaphor was something about extra innings or overtime or, well, whatever.

She was in no position to chastise her younger brother as to inappropriate expenditures of time or effort. Still, why did he make it so obvious for her to see this latest adventure on his part? Was he actually seeking approval? Oh dear. That made it rather important, didn't it? After all, it was easier to get a sister's approval than a parent's, and from there the natural move was to seek support before approaching said parent. Oh damn.

Was Souta becoming _serious_ about his violinist?

As a regular 'employee', Kagome rated a mailbox, which in desperation to avoid her brother's concerns Kagome raided now. She had a fat envelope from her manager, whose first lines despaired at her ability to answer e-mail, calling her a confirmed Luddite. The Sacramento Orchestra was doing a Gilbert and Sullivan festival, and was she interested in participating? Various roles were available, and if she were willing to commit to a six-month performance schedule… Dallas was looking for a soprano for 'Fidelio', and her name had risen to the top. Miami had a slot among the three ladies for 'The Magic Flute. And so on.

Kagome felt the tension that contemplation of her brother's affairs had knotted within her spine drift away as she considered her own possibilities. Idly, she also found herself wondering just how far afield a sports journalist could travel – or _would_ be willing to travel. Perhaps she should consider how the various sports teams of the cities to which she was invited were doing before accepting contracts.

Oh shit. One night's pleasure certainly didn't suggest any such commitment. Yes, he had been rather more than a dear, and something about the way he actually _avoided _looking at her – as if afraid to when she might be looking back – had caught at her heart. The other man last night, while obviously a traditional wolf, had more charm and more _apparent_ devotion. But it was Inuyasha who had kept everyone else and their purchased drinks away without ostentation or real fuss; whose eyes seemed to consume her as she sang, without putting himself forward during the breaks; and who'd cringed when she'd caught him arguing with the wolf – like a beautiful devoted puppy willing to do anything for her…

A night's lovemaking had not dispelled the image in any way. Oh, he was quite prepared to drive off every other male who came near, but a word from her appeared to be sufficient to hold him at bay. Kagome was astonished. He was so beautiful and so obviously proud, and yet also so obviously ready to submit himself to her will.

Kagome sighed. Souta had outsmarted himself. He'd been so preoccupied with setting up his own liaison as sister-proof that he had ignored his prerogatives as to _her_ attachments. Well then, she smirked, let him learn.

* * *

Kohaku found himself interested in or, well, at least amused by, his superior's insistence in further investigation of a particular subject. In any case, since the young man prided himself on putting his country's interests before his own in every context, he had no objection to looking again more carefully at the subject's background.

In the two years since he and his boss had been transferred from D.C. to Camp Pendleton outside of San Diego, Kohaku had come to appreciate the favorable change in climate, as well as his greater discretion regarding his own travel budget. He'd found himself spending almost as much time jumping up and down the coast and inland – as far north as Seattle and inland as the multiple military holdings in the Colorado Springs area – as he did at the Camp. As a result, Kohaku had enjoyed more frequent opportunities to see his friend Rin in person, informally. In this latest instance, it also gave him easier access to research his latest assignment on his subject's own home ground.

Before going out to gather further data, Kohaku took a deeper look into the government's files on Miroku, including the surprising depth of information on his forebears.

He had previously noted that these files were surprising thick. A closer look sloughed off all surprise; Miroku's grandfather had been interned during World War II along with so many other Japanese nationals and immigrants, but unlike most he had been a noisy and vehement protester regarding citizen rights he had earned in 1940, at the same time as his Italian immigrant wife. Likewise, Miroku's father, one of the early Asian Boalt Hall Law School graduates, had made a career of immigrant and farm worker rights. So government interest in either party wasn't really so unusual.

What was, perhaps, a bit surprising was to learn that in his day Grandpa had been a player; at his Buddhist funeral – after a rather suspicious death only a half dozen years after his release from internment – a conspicuous face had been the ex-wife of his camp's senior officer, amid a mourning group heavily weighted to the female gender. In those less permissive times the woman's presence had made waves if not headlines, or at least according to the FBI file.

Miroku's charismatic attorney father, a supporter of Cesar Chaves, brought to the cause by his workers' rights advocate wife, had predeceased his hero by mere months in an unfortunate and unsolved hit and run. His mother had immigrated from Ireland with her brothers after losing their landholding to more powerful interests (his parents had _met_ during an internship Miroku's father had served, but _married_ only a decade later, and then perhaps only because his mother was pregnant. Miroku père was at _least_ as popular with the ladies as Grandpa and the current generation) The FBI and CIA justified their files on Miroku's father by virtue of his contacts with any number of Latin American dignitaries. His maternal antecedents were equally inflammatory, by any measure. All things considered, it was actually surprising that Miroku's own file was relatively lean, especially given his Italian grandmother's file showed Mafia connections.

Miroku followed his forbears by making his own, rather different, noise. He had lost his mother even before his father – yet another unexplained emigrant death – and by his father's will had found himself ward to a Buddhist monastery in Santa Barbara as an elementary student.

Kohaku couldn't help laughing a bit at the profile that emerged. The child Miroku should have been traumatized by the loss of his parents at such an early age. Nothing funny there. But residence at the monastery had given him, apparently, discipline to deal with _that_ trauma as well as his studies. On a more cynical note, it had also given him an appreciation for California wines – the monastery produced both a fine pinot noir and a very drinkable chardonnay – celebrity access to any number of state politicos who shared his tastes and remembered his parents. His grades had earned him access into a prestigious science-based school (albeit with a high Asian student population) in San Francisco. Likewise, his family connections found him a work-study apartment financed by the Tenderloin Housing Clinic in return for hours worked, and apparently genetics worked to earn him notoriety by the time he'd graduated as the most successful player in a generation. Perhaps more importantly, along the way, Miroku had distinguished himself by winning every writing prize that didn't require a primary knowledge of Latin or post-calculus mathematics available throughout the great state of California.

Unlike his parents, upon high school graduation Miroku'd decamped for the East Coast – into yet another prestigious bastion thanks to academic scholarships and grants . At eighteen Miroku was an old hand at grant applications, and had used his inherited fund of charm and connections to exploit and ingratiate himself with every liberal politician who'd ever come in contact with anyone in his family to build a stable of references. As a result, he'd won admittance in probably America's most illustrous educational bastion. And forwith proceeded to earn high marks throughout, as a sideline to more serious pursuits.

That said, Miroku had used his four years in college to solidify an already burgeoning journalistic career. He'd coasted through general education requirements, focusing only on courses that required writing. Ignoring an acclaimed college press, he'd sought out and achieved a relationship with the head of Suneda Artists, one Kaede Suneda, based on his high school and college first semester record of sales to major market newspapers. From there, his career was assured.

While _Kohaku_ had breezed past calculus as a high-school freshman, he found himself oddly drawn to the character that emerged from the files, and looked forward to his Bay Area interviews to flesh out the picture of the player journalist.

Perhaps this was related to his subject's ability to translate his conquests on the high school field of love to the collegiate level. Apparently, Miroku's player genes worked as well in a non-Asian market as in one dominated by a traditionally nerdy and 'anglo' crowd. While all his 'relationships' were short-lived, the man never lacked for female companionship, based again on FBI files. Kohaku found it disturbing that even into the '90s the FBI was placing surveillance on the activities of private citizens with no prior history of subversive activities. Not that it wasn't, for his purposes anyway, instructive. He kinda got it; Miroku seemed to be congenitally attracted to beautiful women from unstable countries. But in those days, his love affairs and his published articles had no connection.

Kohaku found himself grateful to both the FBI and the CIA as he pursued this more in-depth investigation of the entertainment journalist Miroku. Agents, even those disdainful of their assignments, make note of everything. And poor Miroku had been under a modicum of surveillance for a _very_ long time. The fact that the government had a remarkably comprehensive dossier as to every woman he'd slept with since he was sixteen – they'd missed a few while he was still at the monastery, would have most certainly surprised him.

As Kohaku considered his subject, he found himself compelled to ask, would such an intrusion have bothered he himself, beyond the obvious trespass as to his privacy interests? As he planned out his investigation, Kohaku withheld judgment. Many of the women at question remained in the Bay Area.

Some few days later, Kohaku found himself in possession of interesting additions to Miroku's file. It _appeared _that Miroku was nothing more than a player, someone who took advantage of his looks and charm to sweep innocent and more often-than-not-so-innocent women into his bed, although as far as Kohoku could tell his subject saw no need to discriminate one way or another. Equally, as far as Kohoku could tell, the only feature tying together Miroku's conquests was their unifying feature of loveliness, but even that was highly subjective. Although Miroku was famous for his eye for beauty, he often found it even where others tended to overlook. Thus, this player had sometimes reached beyond the norm to seduce, for example, a researcher with unkempt hair and heavy glasses (neither of which would have been noted in bed, of course) and a chubby-cheeked girl whose full-blown breasts had concealed a neat waist, curvaceous hips. Certainly, this woman had been ferevently sought after romantically following her parting with Miroku.

It turned out that Ms Chubby Cheek's attractions included a remarkable associative memory with unerring recall of every request for county funding on disparate projects over the last fifteen years, while the former's research had been confirmed by yet another woman's confirmation. There had also been a very shy, rather mousy clerk with remarkably lovely green eyes – this time cloaked behind heavy bangs – who was responsible for the record of the governor's appointments, from the sitting incumbent to his predecessor two terms back.

Kohaku chuckled. There was nothing in Miroku's file to suggest just how wily a fox the journalist actually was.

So many times that Miroku had invested himself in a new lover, someone so off the beaten path as to be otherwise unknown, a _new_ story had emerged, one so full-blown in relevant details that it made headlines. Granted, every time the story saw print the fluff columnist had managed to twist the story _away_ from any _sordid _applications to the victims into an heroic gesture on their part to rise _above_ their oppressor. It was an easy appeal to Miroku's standard readers, and it was easy on Kohauku's part to trace the subsequent foundations and appeals set up to appease the victims Miroku exposed to society.

It hadn't escaped Kohaku's notice that Miroku's lovers never lasted much beyond the headlines he produced. Still, the writer seemed largely heedless. Within weeks of the apparent abandonment of one devoted lover the journalist was heady upon a new theme. In any case, Kohaku's research had failed to unearth any failure to produce a contracted article. Even secondary research had revealed merely slight deviations from the chosen topics agreed to and signed. Of more obvious importance, and remarkable on it its own, his research had failed to uncover any unsatisfied lovers as well. Apparently, Miroku was at least as remarkable for his ability to negotiate terminations as anything else.

At first, Kohaku had been inclined to admire Miroku for leaving the West Coast when he went to college. Kohaku, himself a West Point graduate, couldn't argue about school admissions, especially where Miroku had no more obvious 'ins' than he himself possessed. As near as he could tell, Miroku's stature as a columnist had been built on a well established reputation during his high school and college years. It _appeared _that Miroku had won every roll of the dice he'd played. Remarkable as that was, to be favored by luck was not something Kohoku could find objectionable – hadn't he himself been favored there on more than one occasion?

And at the end of his research, Kohaku found nothing disingenuous about Miroku's decision to return to the Bay Area, something to do with his elevation from being a mere stringer with the _Boston_ _Globe _to being a columnist for the San Jose _Mercury News_. Granted, it was a step down, publication-wise. But Miroku's family name was bigger, and had a heritage on the West Coast, that weighed heavily against the Globe's greater readership. Only an idiot would discount the value of continuing heritage against mere fame. For a man whose family had been stolen prematurely, was it any real surprise that he should find reason to return home?

And it didn't hurt that, in the meantime, Sesshomouru's conglomerate had bought the local rag. Writers kept on after the whole purchase debacle had recognized a good 25% increase over previous revenues. Of course, there were fewer of them, and so much more was expected.

Kohaku wondered a bit as to how exactly Miroku's contract was structured. He'd already ascertained that the writer was in full demand from any number of venues, and apparently he'd kept a fairly free publishing schedule. He knew of at least three book publishers vying for rights to Miroku's already published works.

As he drove to his first interview Kohaku considered the question.

Three days later, Kohaku found himself at a loss. He had found himself liking Miroku and almost wanting to be like him. The journalist had a courage under fire that Kohaku admired, as well as diligence. Even so, as near as Kohaku could tell, the subject's motivation was always wholly self-interested. This, despite the admitted reality that virtually all of his articles resulted in socially-positive end results. Did that matter when in _every _case Miroku had benefitted, although Kohaku had had to search hard for some of the payoffs? Sure, in some cases, the reality was a payoff in merely "feel-good" banquets that had been so poorly promoted as to erase their long-term value. Of course, who knew how many such cases had resulted in a buildup of human capital that the journalist could call upon at need?

Kohaku had sufficient field experience to recognize the value of good will when he saw it. It actually fascinated him to recognize the enormity of this asset in relation to Miroku's more tangible accounts. He suspected some inchoate admiration for the reporter had led him to understate his assessment of those assets against the more easily documented portfolio balances. While Naraku's beef with the journalist might be valid, Kohaku saw no reason to add speculative fuel to the flames.

On a whim, he'd IM'd Rin as to her own investigations after she'd approached him. _Her_ motivation was clear – Miroku was one of her guardian's best writers and money-makers, which didn't make her – or Sesshomouru, in point of fact - a federal law-breaker as to their interests in his _legitimate_ activities. In the interests of fair play, Kohaku had sent her copies of some documents; redacted, of course; to indicate just how sensitive her query had been. He knew she would not have resented him for the hold-outs. But he was fully aware that, as a private citizen, she would _not _have felt barred by security restrictions to further her own investigations. That had been more than enough to prevent him from violating his own security clearance as to what he'd sent her.

He also knew he needed to do some research as to state privacy laws before forwarding any additional results to her… and, what that meant, ultimately to Sesshomouru.

His friend's guardian was relentless and only, at least by reputation, marginally bound by law as it was asserted and judicially proved. Kohaku had his own reasons for being confident of this belief. Still, he had made it a point not to tar Rin with her guardian's brush, even though he knew Sesshomouru had set Rin on this investigation.

It was a pretty question.

He wrestled with himself as he considered how open he was to using whatever information she might have found that he wouldn't otherwise have been privy to. And then he remembered that Rin knew fully well to whom he was beholden; and therefore just how much she might limit her own revelations.

He wondered a bit at the sigh of relief his heart uttered as she responded to his IM.

Kohaku sighed. At this point, he probably knew as much or more about a man he'd never met as he did about his own sister. Something was clearly wrong with his life.

Or hers.


	13. Chapter 14: Family Ties

_A/N: Post law school graduation/pre bar review: Hope you're not holding your breath on updates._

_Disclaimer: No ownership claims made, no revenues earned. Yada, yada, yada…._

_Chapter 14: Family Ties_

"Yo, bro! What's this shit on NPR about the _Globe_ on the ropes?" Inuyasha leaned hard against the quasi-door of Miroku's quasi-office/cubicle. Despite its access to an outside wall and window, Inuyasha recognized a farce for what it was. Miroku had no more access to a closed door policy than the copy-machine operator, when it came right down to it. Except, perhaps, his ability to simply absent himself.

Which wouldn't work at the moment, since Miroku was visibly hunched over his laptop's keyboard. The threat to the Boston _Globe_ was _new _news, given the many whispers over virtually every less hallowed paper up both coasts and breathing over the hinterlands. For months most of the newsies had attempted to see the headlines in isolation, ignoring the prognostications of the business pages. The word of the LA _Times_ on the auction block was not exactly headline-breaking; it had happened before. Most saw it as yet another symptom of the aggregation of power in too few media hands, and just another sign of a continuing trend.

"Idiot. How many papers have to go under before the majors start to fall? The economics of the news industry were apparent from the moment that blogs took off."

"You _saw_ this coming? What do you mean by the blogs signaling it? And hey! Are you trying to tell me _all_ of those of us in journalism are screwed?"

Miroku paused momentarily in his thought to take in his friend's face. He had a deadline to meet, but he'd already finished writing his piece for the most part, and there was a vulnerability on Inuyasha's face that he hadn't seen in years, so his head was reasonably clear. Actually, since it was from Kouga that Miroku had gotten his first hint of the shakeout in media, he wasn't really surprised as to Inuyasha's ignorance. Koaga and Inuyasha got along at all mostly for Miroku's sake, although over the last year some of their innate hostility seemed to have mellowed a bit.

Miroku stood up from his desk and, looping an arm across Inuyasha's shoulders, steered him down the hallway to chat.

It was a nice change from their college years. Somehow, Miroku had found himself landed with an uncouth, spasmodically-educated jock as a first year college roommate. He hadn't thought such a thing was possible at such an elite institution, and had, initially, been both disappointed and annoyed. That is, until he'd actually spent some time with Inuyasha, and recognized that not only did this athletically gifted young man have an uncanny ability to comprehend and even anticipate complex game strategy, but he also seemed perfectly comfortable with all aspects of higher math. Miroku had found himself seeking tutoring from his otherwise obtuse roommate during their general education course on statistics. Miroku _still_ sometimes shrugged in dismay that his friend's love of sports had sent him into journalism, after twice blowing out his knees to major ligament tears (effectively ending any potential career as an active participant), instead of something that took advantage of his quantitative talents.

But then, that was before Miroku knew of Inuyasha's ties to InuAmerica and Taisho Publishing…

"Yash, it's been there for maybe a decade. I'm only surprised it's taken so long. Hey, we've had a _great _ride in the meantime." The two had been walking the press room hallway towards the vending machines, and Miroku nudged his friend casually, ignoring his own dependence on a cane. It was all he could think of at the moment to maintain a less-than-emergency attitude. "And you've followed my advice, right? You're in good with the _radio_ audience – funny that radio would outlast print media, and funnier still that radio sports would survive in a video age. I gotta give you credit for spotting _that _trend – I never woulda thought it!"

Inuyasha ignored the bone his friend had thrown – both know it it was shit. "Shit. I've been holding off signing contracts with these folks – I thought digital woulda been splashier, and these guys have been offering me _peanuts_…"

Miroku sighed. Inuyasha had stood by him when both of them had been outsiders, Asian-bred interlopers to an Anglo-dominated power hegemony more than ready to turn their backs based purely on prejudice. Ancient history now, supposedly.

"Dumbass. You think Europeans invented the art of business and family relationships on their own? _Remember_ Asian ancestor-worship, family honor, etc.? Get your head outta your ass and _admit_ that Sesshomouru's your brother. You can _leverage_ that now, before his holdings become dirt. And while your _name_ still holds water."

"Sessh is gonna fail?" The sheer disbelief in Inuyasha's words spoke volumes, as far as Miroku was concerned. It explained centuries of hidebound acceptance of birth and class-based regimentalism he'd only read about. Miroku wondered where his own progenitors had found the courage to escape in the first place.

That said, Miroku had always enjoyed encouraging his left-blanket friend to succeed in the American experiment of chaotic meritocracy. He himself would have enjoyed watching Taisho the elder go down in flames, while the younger brother earned contracts on every sports network known to man, if Miroku's past hadn't been haunted by other demons. In any case, it was, of course, a mere dream.

"I don't _know_ that. But yeah, maybe half of his papers are gonna go under in the next six months. The '_News'?_ I dunno. It's tech-based, in a tech environment. Good demographics. Yash. You _are _keeping your options open, okay? Cruise the 'net sales-folks, but don't make any long-term commitments, you know? Don't let their reach snow you – "

"Shit man, I'm good. But what about you? The '_News'_ goes under, where are you?" Inuyasha found himself too easily bringing up a memory of his good friend chowing down on 'happy hour' offerings for the price of a few well drinks back in their college years. It wasn't a pretty picture.

"Dumbass. Hiring a manager is _exactly_ the reason for situations like this. Kaede gives me distance from whatever shit falls on the publisher _de jour_. Which means I can sell easily to anyone else…"

* * *

"Groovy, Dumbass-squared". The archaic language struck both writers as they considered the far too familiar voice echoing in the hallway. Koaga's voice had dropped a half-octave, but both recognized it instantly.

Inuyasha answered first, "Less'n you got something more valuable to say, don't think either of us give a damn as to stock performance at the moment."

Miroku jumped in: "Koaga. You're a man of honor, yes? And a _friend_, one way or another. Can we trust you?" Shit. How many years had gone by since a sporting relationship had morphed into something more tangible? Miroku had ultimately lost to Koaga's strength on the singles tennis court. But there had never been any malice in the guy's competitiveness, a circumstance that had encouraged Koaga to treat his defeated opponent to a night of bar-hopping later that weekend. As it happened, Miroku had the better head for alcohol, and he'd easily noticed that after a few drinks, something very akin to loneliness lurking behind Koaga's self-confidence had begun to evidence itself. At first, seeing it as something to be exploited in the future, it had been Miroku's own self-interested competitiveness that had triggered the younger man's charm to extend a bond of friendship to his erstwhile opponent.

Over the years, that bond had cemented into something quite solid.

"I dunno. Depends on whether or not you're gonna name me as co-author on a piece that could go Pulitzer."

O_kay_.

So _maybe_ that original competitive spirit had never actually died. It didn't help that Miroku had seduced more than several of the women that the business journalist had been pursuing into his own bed.

"Guess that depends on how much of it _you're_ gonna write – and whether you get better info than I can get alone – " at this point Miroku held up his hand to interrupt Koaga's obvious protest. "And I mean _something_ beyond what you've already told me. I already know the feds are on my case, and maybe that's all your intel says anyway. Which, frankly, isn't much when it comes to sharing kudos for such a big prize."

Koaga grinned crookedly. "You always were a tough nut. Seriously, Miroku, why you're in journalism when you should be brokering deals I'll never know." Koaga cocked his head towards the elevator. "You two got any reason to stay here, or can we adjourn this discussion to a more congenial venue? At this hour, the Market Bar outdoors will only have tourists in attendance…"

Miroku met Inuyasha's eyes briefly. By this time they had returned to his cubicle, although he hadn't actually resumed work. He closed his laptop, swiftly detaching it from the docking station and slipping it into the over-the-shoulder messenger-bag he'd adopted in compromise, along with so many of his peers, at traditional briefcases. Inuyasha punched Koaga hard to remind him that he was part of whatever package might be in the works.

Although just what Inuyasha could offer at this time remained very much a mystery.

* * *

She needed to extend her cover story.

Girl seeking solace in a bar would _no_ longer do. Sure, they had extended the bare bones of that to cover any likely questions the target lecher was likely to ask, but the assumption had always been that _little_ head would overwhelm big head, at_ least_ long enough for them to achieve the mission.

Now the mission had evolved into something a bit longer term than a one-night stand. So to speak. Okay, in reality.

Sango rolled her shoulders easily, taking a deep breath as she weighed the risks before speaking her mind.

"He's a journalist, an expert at research. I didn't lie about my name or that I worked for the DoD – no, there's no point worrying about that now, the damage is done. We can also assume that, if he is in fact our mole, he has spent at least _some _time checking up on me. So there is _no_ point in building up any false identity. If he is innocent, it doesn't matter. If he's guilty, a web of truth _might_ actually catch him where deceit would fail."

As she had expected, the various handlers were impressed with her logic, although one or two were concerned with the potential for her being exposed to a network of terrorists if Miroku was in fact a mole. She laughed.

"If he is, aren't I _already_ exposed from last night? Our best bet is to brazen this out – if it gets that far, I'll admit at some point in our 'dating' that I'm in intelligence work. If he's _really_ innocent, he'll take any oddness as a necessary intrusion into his private life to protect national security. And if he's guilty, well, there's _still _a good chance that he'll think he's disarmed me enough to believe that _I _believe he's innocent. Which makes my revealing myself to him all the more _effective._" Sango relaxed, confident in her logic even though she knew that Naraku was almost certainly listening in to this strategy session. Sango played her trump card. "If I'm wrong, there is no point in my continuing the assignment, is there?" And it would be for others to determine if she had any futher value. In truth, Sango was accepting an extraordinary level of liability for what should have been a fairly low-level exposure operation. That risk was the key to all.

For all intents and purposes, everyone there was a tech, handler, or analyst, aside from Sango as field agent. Still, obviously, one of them was also the feed to the mission director. And Sango would have been an idiot to assume that Naraku wasn't himself the field director – no one else would have cared so much to make a high-level mission of investigating a fluff journalist with zero access to classified information. When she looked at it rationally, the whole affair appeared more and more a paranoid dream on Naraku's part (except that the innocent fluff journalist had avoided a crack operative's attempt to compromise his security - which none of the rest of team knew).

So Sango would learn much from how the rest of the team responded to her proposal.

* * *

Rin was intrigued.

Mostly, of course, because she could tell that _Kohaku _was intrigued. Rin had lived too many years with her foster-father not to have absorbed more than a few ideas as to what he thought warranted appreciation and further introspection.

It had been _that _discipline that had drawn her to Kohaku in the first place. A military man in a seminar devoted to improving internet search techniques was hardly a novelty. Rin had previously collated the registration data and knew that more than half the class had ties to either DoD or other intelligence services.

But throughout the seminar it had been Kohaku who had first raised questions regarding rights to privacy, _not _her fellow media participants. At first, she saw this as a screen to his real interests – or rather, the initiating sword thrust. After all, Kohaku's available record indicated several courses in both military and civilian criminal law.

But by the end of the seminar, Rin knew she was more than half in love with the young soldier. Not because he was good-looking or charming. Although she thought the freckles sprinkling his nose were adorable and his confident address had performed more than the equivalent of sweeping her off her feet. It was because every question he posed took the technicalities for granted and went right to the _heart_ of the legal and moral authority of what the available technology allowed them to do.

Rin understood technology in ways most people didn't. She simply wouldn't be alive in another age, as she carefully stroked the scar defining her liver transplant. She did _not_ want to question the means of her transplant, given her guardian's seemingly endless resources. She did _not_ want to know who had died so she might live.

And so her interest in a handsome soldier preoccupied with the application of morality was, as far as she could assess, no more than to be expected.

Some four months after the end of the seminar, she'd received an email from Kohaku requesting a "coffee date", obviously the least threatening meeting the young man could conceive of, during a data-gathering tour authorized by his office.

An hour later, Rin questioned her earlier assessment as to being merely _half _in love.

After six months of such meetings Sesshoumoru suggested that it was time for him to meet the young soldier.

Rin felt a certain relief in admitting that he was not stationed within easy calling grounds.

"Rin. _No_ man worthy of you will defy meeting me."


	14. Chapter 15: Why we do what we do

_Disclaimer: No ownership claims on anything, no monies changing hands, no basis for litigation…_

Chapter 15

Two and a half hours of voice exercises and rigorous application to her Russian language-learning cd's – Kagome had taken notice that Russian operas were becoming more and more popular internationally, whereas her own career had been largely limited to Japan and the U.S., so improving her enunciation of the lyrics as well her understanding of the feelings behind the lyrics could only improve her overall marketability, and maybe even break her into the European market – and Kagome was _more _than ready for a break. She slipped a folk music cd into the sound room's player as she pulled out her cell phone to check for messages.

Her agent was wrong – Kagome was no _real_ Luddite, despite the fact that she still carried cd's around. She truly appreciated modern technology; her cell worked as a camera, calendar, message center, and mp3 player, but ear-buds and headsets made her ears itch, and the studio's sound system was incredible, allowing her to hear nuances that were lost without some spatial distance to develop within. She didn't understand it herself; all she knew was that it worked! As for avoiding her agent's emails, well, most of the time she felt a bit intimidated by them. She was more than half-convinced he'd incoded all his emails to send him a "received notice" once she opened them, and Kagome liked to take time to fully consider her options, particularly when it applied to her singing career. If she failed to respond to his emails in a timely manner… Well then, it was because she was always hesitant to open them in the first place.

The same concern did _not_ hold sway when she saw a message from an otherwise unknown sender. She and Inuyasha had not formally exchanged cell numbers when she'd left that morning, both too enamored in each other's goodbyes to think practically. But she _had_ given him her email account, and her phone could easily access email.

A message from "Nobody's_pet" spoke volumes: "Hey, Angel: Don't make me take 'no' for an answer, and meet me for dinner at Buddy's, 7pm. Just us. And if you want more onion bagels I'll lay in a long-term contract! Just say the word… Inuyasha."

Kagome's heart warmed several magnitudes, but she delayed responding until noon, when she accepted the invitation, along with a suggestion that her tastes were broader than mere onions. She temporized any suggested rebuke he might feel by including her cell number, and then considered the clock as to her options for grabbing a bite out before settling in the studio with her voice coach for her twice weekly lesson.

_I __like__ him. I like him asserting himself – letting me know that he's __still__ interested even though we've already slept together. I like his suggestion that he wants time to get to __know__ me, and that he's telling me he's available for the long haul. Maybe he's lying, but damn! That has to be the most romantic thing anyone has ever sent to me!_

* * *

"Damn. You're _good_. I mean, _I _never know how far to go in telling someone I want to see them again" Kouga sneezed – as far as he was concerned, Inuyasha had _never_ gotten to that point before, and only had _this _time because Miroku had composed the email for him.

Inuyasha continued in his exuberance over reading Kagome's text-message, "Cause I _know_ it's bad to sound too eager, but I think I would fucking kill myself if she wouldn't go out with me again!"

"Asshole!" Kouga smacked the backside of Miroku's head as he spoke. "_You_ knew I was interested in her, too, and you still gave the idiot advice! I should _geld_ you!"

His friend shifted an annoyed glance at the business writer as the threesome pulled out I.D. in preparation for entering the paper's building following their lunch together. "'Yash won first honors _and_ gave me a good overview of their 'date' so I could help him decide his next move. _You_ never made it to first base, let alone get contact info and, to top it off, abused me in _absentia_. Tell me why _I _owe you squat?"

"We both know 'Yash is an _idiot _when it comes to women. Don't you think you're doing _her_ a disservice by fooling her into thinking he's worth spending time with?" Koaga didn't waste time with spurious arguments; His younger friend had thought he was gods' gift to women as _least_ as long as he had known him, and was notoriously sly as to sharing his talents. The only _sure _way to reach him was to suggest he was somehow either wasting his _own _time or _bothering_ the half of humanity he had taken it upon himself to adore. Surely forcing a lovely young woman to endure time spent with Inuyasha counted among the latter.

Miroku's smile was indicative of the failure of Koaga's argument, "Ah but, Inuyasha's an idiot because he's _ignorant_; he's never really _cared_ that much before."

Miroku's smile broadened. "Actually, near as I can tell, so far the only thing _either _of you've cared about is your mutual _competition_ – not the women you've been competing over. Which is why neither of you've ever been really mad at _me _– when I walk out with the lady on my arm - or at the reality that _neither_ of you has ever managed to win over the other, despite the fact that you're both reasonably successful on your own, that is, when you're not competing." He spoke almost off-hand as they entered the elevator, and Inuyasha was almost provoked to protest. Certainly, Miroku seemed to favoring his case with Kagome, but his friend was putting him on a par with Koaga, for gods' sake!

Miroku continued, "This girl who went home with him had every opportunity to _choose_ you, Koaga, and we _all_ know you are quite capable of representing yourself." Miroku smothered a smirk. He already knew that Koaga had had more than his share of romantic successes over the years – far more, actually, than the younger Inuyasha, and for the sake of his continued friendship with the man he was not about to mention how often he'd sweet-talked a lissome lass out of Koaga's bed and into his own (Koaga may be the better man at tennis but…). This discussion was _not_ about asserting sexual dominance. "So, we've already established that _this_ time the lady preferred Inuyasha's rougher, if perhaps more… sincere, charms. Really, Koaga. Was it any contest?"

This was too much for Inuyasha. As if there had ever been any question! "Fuck. Do I have to _repeat_ myself? She went home with _me_!"

The two young men subsided like the canines they were, merely growling at one another. This was, to Miroku's eye, a reasonably good sign.

Their office floor still beckoned some floors above in the elevator, and Miroku took these few seconds of relative silence to bring his own inner state into full reflection of his outwardly calm demeanor. This was, in point of fact, the first time in some years that Inuyasha had asserted himself as to a woman's affections. Miroku himself had made sure of that, having made a practice of seducing almost all of Inuyasha's lovers away from him since they had met, purely to satisfy his own bias against his perception of the athlete as yet another member of the privileged class.

Even after he had learned better, habit was hard to break.

A drunken revelry shortly before graduation had exposed the ugly truth, and, for the period thereafter and ending only with the two men confronting each other before Kaede's desk in San Francisco more than a year later, had severed their friendship.

Miroku had found himself oddly defensive of Inuyasha's lovelife ever since, although he would never admit such. If Inuyasha never before had walked out with the girl, well, Miroku had always seen to it that Koaga didn't beat him to her. At least, not until last night.

* * *

"_Each day is an act of faith_" It wasn't Buddhist in origin, of that he was reasonably sure. Probably Catholic – it seemed to resonate with those early years when his mother was still alive and trying hard to instill in her oddly wary child something of the morality that had been a driving force in her own life. So she had enrolled him at St. Isabella's Elementary, where the catechism was taught along with phonetic reading and the times tables. She'd hoped it would make up a bit for her own absences as she pursued ever elusive prey in civil rights litigation.

At first it had seemed to work. Miroku adapted to the routine and rigor of a religiously-based education as if born to it. He memorized the prayers almost on first hearing, and amazed his teachers with his ready application of each reading to the applicable church teaching. It was only later that they realized how his quick mind could find application of his readings to more subversive activities. The resident nun still remembered how fiercely a seven-year-old Miroku had defended the appearance of a shallow bowel of avocado dip, all too precariously balanced upon the brow of the chapel's statue of St. James. Something about traditional pilgrimage, the blessed apostle's reaching out across cultures to non-believers, James' love of the Savior as his brother and the pranks brothers pull on one another, and some nonsense about skateboards and the man with the best aim…

Each day is an act of faith. The monks in the monastery had made that a reality, and the young Miroku had been all too aware of this fact when he had been uprooted from his busy urban existence upon his mother's death to join their ranks as a dependant, if not a novitiate. Searching for relevance, Miroku had mapped what he had learned from the Catholic nuns against the monks' existence, and found interesting convergences. The reality that this cloistered existence was so easily breached by a secular world merely confirmed what the young boy had already observed of his own childhood. It didn't escape him that the abbot as often as not would introduce him to whatever luminary from the outside world had dropped in to savor the on-premises vineyard's renowned products, and from those experiences he'd learned more about his then-still-living father than his mother had ever said. And of _her_ own reputation.

Miroku had made friends along the way. Santa Barbara was an eclectic community. There was nothing odd in a Buddhist monastery existing within an easy bike-ride from a centuries-old Catholic church. Especially when the two entities shared a mission of providing sanctuary for political refugees, even though the nearest border was still hundreds of miles away. Sister Annabella was a perfect example.

As a Guatemalan refugee with some ten years of official dispensation at the time Miroku had come to live in Santa Barbara, she was all too aware of the fickle arm of the law. Having been funneled for many days from one site to another after finally crossing the border, she had been more than surprised to find that her first official place of work would be in the wine-tasting room of an august Santa Barbara _Buddhist_ monastery. Annabella had already taken her vows as a Catholic nun – it had been her tiny church's activities that had driven her abroad in fear of her life as its only survivor – and to find sanctuary in a bastion of another faith was, well, incongruous at best.

But in seven years, working her way up from shifting bottles from the storage vaults to the tasting room to assisting in customer service to finally running the tasting room herself, all while maintaining her faith and her devotion quite openly, Sister Anabella had helped enumerable families cross the border into the U.S.

She had also kept up a running feud with the Monk Mushin, and between the two they had been young Miroku's primary influences as he moved from prepubescence to adolescence.

Annabella, obedient servant of God that she was, had had no qualms about transferring to an impoverished San Francisco diocesis after her stint in Santa Barbara. This dutifulness was amplified by an occasional recognition of faces now and then that she had helped to find their way in the U.S. after crossing the border. A mother here, a father or brother there, all in positions of various safety in the Bay Area, gave Sister Annabella surcease as to any qualms she might have had in breaking international laws.

Two years ago, as she had emerged from an evening's service at a soup kitchen on the Embarcadero, Sister Anabella had almost stumbled into a young man in military dress as he strode down the broad sidewalk. That the two should recognize one another was, as Miroku would say years later, more than dumb luck. Kohaku had been no more than a child when Sango had brought them both across three international boundaries into the hinterlands of Texas. But he would never forget any face that made the journey easier.

Annabella had been one of those faces.

* * *

More than a decade later, as he put foot-to-pavement in the interest of bringing to life Miroku's files, Kohaku had been shocked to see a familiar face in the rounds that made up Miroku's circle of long-standing friends.

In hindsight, he realized that he _shouldn't_ have been so surprised. There were, after all, a limited number of activists, even within liberal California. He already knew that Miroku was a scion of a recognized liberal family, and that despite an adolescent flight to the East Coast, Miroku had returned to his parents' home territory. But Miroku had spent eighteen years living in the shadow of his parents' past – yeah, Kohaku thought from his own experience, that _could_ be enough to drive one away – a past rife with involvement in workers' rights, civil rights and often enough, civil disobedience. It was no _real_ surprise that they should have been at least tangentially involved in illegal immigration.

Kohaku had, on one level, already determined as much, but it was one thing to indulge in forensic analysis and objectively draw conclusions. It was something else entirely to discover how those conclusions might resonate with his own life.

And for the first time, Kohaku seriously considered the consequences of Naraku's decision to bring his sister into the case. Initially, his conscience had been only mildly tweaked. Kohaku was a history major, and understood all too well how much and how often his adoptive country's military forces had breached Constitutional paradigms, all at the behest of presidents later given historical recognition. As a naturalized citizen granted access to an elite military education, Kohaku was all too aware that this put him in a precarious position.

Then there was Sango's involvement. He had not been surprised when his boss had recruited his older sister – always more talented physically and better able to read her opponents' states of mind – for this assignment.

Despite her many complaints as to her handler's instructions even from the beginning, she had risen within the ranks of elite forces. Sango objected to the morality of her assignments even as she performed them to exactitude. But then, Sango had spent much more time with the various nuns and priests that had brought them across deserts and hinterlands from their impoverished and oppressed homeland to a new home in the United States. _She_ had been the one to help dig graves with every failure that had overlapped their own journey, while he had been sent to gather wildflowers. And so she had sworn herself to this new country with a vengeance her brother could only hope to match. This dedication had underlain every achievement of the two siblings since they had been finally identified by then-INS agents in Phoenix, just one year shy of Sango's attaining her B.S., and while Kohaku was still in high school.

Some bright-eyed and bushy-tailed Homeland Security agent had actually _looked_ at their records before they were deported, and a deal had been offered. Neither had ever looked back.

Even so, Kohaku grimaced as he considered Miroku's ties to Sister Annabella – Annabella who had introduced him to sushi (okay, now, he still thought _that _was kinda weird. She'd always said that this kid she knew loved it so he probably would too – oh shit! Could that kid have been Miroku?), Annabella, who read "The Federalist Papers" to better help her understand why America was so different from any other place in the world, and had gotten him interested in the writings behind the history books. Sister Annabella, whom Kohaku could finally admit to himself hovered up there with Sango to abridge that "mother" space in his mind that had never been filled, since his own mother had died with his birth. So what the fuck were _Miroku_'s ties to Sister Annabella, anyway?

By now, Kohaku's investigation into Miroku had become very personal indeed. At the same time, he felt like his boss figuratively had him by the balls. He couldn't act against General Naraku without jeopardizing his own very existence. And yet, to save Sango, who had done so much for him with so little reward for herself… Kohaku reconsidered his priorities. If he could save Sango, than he really didn't give a damn as to what happened to himself. As for General Naraku's fate? How many men had he consigned to death in the various war zones he oversaw? Even one death probably justified the general's own.


	15. Chapter 16

_A/N: No proprietary interests. I think I've finally got a bit back into the humor/enjoyable aspects of this story. Beats the hell out of cogitating Evidence questions for the Bar…_

-----------------------------

Chapter 16

After thinking about it for a while, Sango decided that Miroku would expect _her_ to be the one to make the next move, and that she would do so soon. They had parted warmly that morning, and while his goodbye-kiss had been no more than friendly as it brushed across her cheekbone, the hand caressing her _tusch_ had been both intimate and playful. She had used only perfunctory force in slapping him away (although he would probably be feeling that slap more keenly than his aching foot for the near term, anyway, given the way he had been rubbing his cheek when she'd turned away to leave).

Then again, she _had _injured him; it was only good manners for her to check up on his well-being soon. And that was saying nothing about the man's ego as to any other interest she might have.

His file had been quite clear – Miroku was a notorious player frequently seen with a succession of different, usually beautiful women, on his arm. Having now spent time in his company, she understood the appeal. It wasn't just that he was handsome and charming, but that he exuded warmth and goodwill. He had a gift for making the person he was talking to believe she was remarkable and capable of wholly consuming his attention. And, perhaps more tellingly, his self-confidence was such that he could not only _easily_ laugh at himself but often did so, disarming any hint of arrogance.

Sango envied these qualities, believing herself pretty much bereft of them. Oh, she didn't lack confidence as to her own abilities – she was fully aware that she could more than hold her own physically against almost any man not only in the agency but also in her previous military unit, and _that_ was saying a lot. She had instant recall for schematics and blueprints of all sorts upon a single viewing, ease with spatial relationships that had yet to be fully tested, and finely honed tactical instincts that, coupled with extraordinarily quick reactions, enhanced her ability to improvise. _All_ of which made her a superb field agent.

Given her field experience, Sango couldn't help but know that she was also attractive, if a bit intimidating in the face of her physical presence. Still, outside of her areas of expertise she had always felt terribly gauche, preferring to speak as little as possible. It was when she realized that she was almost babbling last night that Sango had fully appreciated Miroku's charm… Which had _nothing_ to do with planning out her strategy for going forward!

So yes. She would give him a call and ask after his foot. She didn't think she would have to push too hard for him to suggest a date, and even if she did he would almost certainly acquiesce just because, a) he was _that _easy-going, and perhaps more importantly, b) he almost certainly wanted to get in her pants again.

Sango considered the pad of graph paper in front of her, with its neat block printing outlining matrices of information she was considering revealing to Miroku in the course of either continuing to gain and hold his trust, or to disarm him as to her suspicions regarding his awareness of her suspicions of him. It was all a bit twisted, of course.

He _knew_ she worked for DoD. Almost certainly he'd figured out that she worked in intelligence, and it wasn't as if she'd denied it last night. _If_ he were merely the curious and reasonably infatuated journalist he professed, then he would naturally push a bit, but accept any protests on her part regarding confidentiality. It should _not _occur to him that he was her target, and he _should_ not appear particularly sensitive as to his own privacy. That, of course, was the position they'd all been operating from last night, when the goal was to examine his files to see just how much information he'd had on General Naraku's secret contacts within Myan Mar's Islamist groups, and just how close he was to revealing them.

But _that_ was before he'd avoided being chemically knocked on his ass, despite suffering enough pain in his instep to drive most people to distraction and the welcome relief of oblivion that painkiller drugs offered. _That_ was before he had, in such a state of pain, bent his efforts to assiduously driving _her_ to distraction through much of the night.

As she had suggested in the debriefing, Sango's best guess was that Miroku was somehow _on _to her and on the defensive. On the one hand, retreat and calling in a new team was the obvious answer, although he would certainly be on his guard and any infiltration would be that much more difficult. Especially if he _were_ in fact a trained operative or terrorist. Which, of course, is why ultimately her proposal had been accepted.

The basic assumption was that Miroku was, in fact, _en guarde_. But he would not necessarily know that Sango was _aware_ of that fact. If _he_ believed that he had managed to convince her that he was an innocent after all, there was a good chance that he would relax a bit. Oh, it would take a while, and she would have to walk a very fine line before actually appearing fully convinced. But after that, his own actual arrogance would cause him to trip up. And instead of merely putting a lid on a potentially damaging information leak, Sango might well find herself removing a dangerous terrorist. Twisted indeed. A ludicrous game of 'if he knew that she knew that he knew then he would do x…', and who _only_ knew how deeply nested the knowledge imputations truly went.

The fact that this plan involved her spending as much time as possible with the sexy and charming journalist, as they danced their way into a position of relaxed wariness and one-sided trust (on his part) was, of course, entirely beside the point.

Or so Sango told herself as she underlined the various notes she had made to herself regarding augmentations to her wardrobe that she had every intention of charging to Naraku's mission budget.

------------------------------

Inuyasha spent the afternoon mostly on the phone, talking to various coaches and players regarding just-finished games and upcoming face-offs on one front and training season on another. He made a follow-up call to a well-known orthopedic surgeon as to word on one particular athlete's ACL tear, and to an accountant friend regarding a brewing scandal with the IRS as to a college's reallocation of Title VIX funds.

He'd entrusted the same friend as to initial negotiations regarding his on-line sports reporting, and suddenly realized he should also give Kaede a head's up before he got in too deep there. The _last_ thing he wanted was to piss her off – she had proven a friend to him in the bad old days when his half-brother had refused to even acknowledge his existence, let alone allow him to work for their father's publications. It had been she, after all, who'd allowed him to continue living in her home even after the injuries that had ended his athletic career had curtailed both his scholarships and ability to pay rent.

At he worked, Inuyasha watched the clock. He'd already figured out just how much time he needed to be at Buddy's by 6:45, even allowing time to snag flowers for Kagome at that stand on Market beforehand (at Miroku's suggestion). Buddy's menu was simple, the service was friendly, and the ambiance casual yet reasonably quiet – they wouldn't have to yell at one another to be heard while they ate.

At first he'd been offended by Miroku's and Koaga's comments in the elevator. This was _his_ life, not theirs, that they so casually addressed. Still, he'd had to admit that Miroku hadn't been far off. Before he'd met the fluff journalist back East, Inuyasha had enjoyed his share of cheerleaders and other bright-eyed young women eager to attach their stars to rising athletes. That particular river had appeared to dry up in college. At first he'd attributed it to being an underclassman, with fewer opportunities to shine on the field, and being at a more rigorous academic institution, where sports simply did not garner as much attention. Later, after being dropped from the team thanks to his injuries, he'd decided that he had to work too hard to keep his grades acceptable just to stay in school, so that without his sports hero billing women didn't find him attractive anyway, especially given his Asian roots and odd coloring.

Although, the facts didn't actually support this. He'd still managed the occasional hook-up – yes, there was actually nothing off-putting about his somewhat exotic appearance; pale hair and dark brows framed fierce amber eyes in a face too swiftly drawn for regular beauty while still distinctive and commanding. And his blown knees did not change the way his tightly strung frame and well-defined muscles shifted with a speed and grace that caught the eye even when heavily draped in ill-fitting sweats.

But it never seemed to go beyond sex or, for that matter, a single night. Still, this had actually suited Inuyasha just fine. Not that he'd _ever_ tell Miroku as much, especially after he'd learned that his 'friend' had been seducing women out from under him for years.

Although, given what he had said in the elevator, apparently Miroku was perfectly aware that Inuyasha had yet to actually give a damn about anyone he'd met to date. This wasn't right. Not because it wasn't true, but Miroku _should_ feel guilty about having gotten in his way when they were younger. The bastard _owed_ him, and Inuyasha had no intention of ever letting him forget it. Even if – no, _especially_ if the lech's advice continued to pay off…

Buddy's did its best business during the week, relying on the myriad of financial district workers and their clients to make up the bulk of its clientele. Not the high flyers, _per se_, but the nuts-and-bolts deal-makers looking for a comfortable place to eat well, grab a few drinks, and not have to worry about a loosened tie or altogether lack thereof. The tables were generally a bit further apart than was usual – _privacy_ was appreciated at Buddy's, and yes, a bit of a premium was paid for it. Inuyasha actually ate there often. Sports celebrities enjoyed it because the portions were large and they were usually left to eat in peace.

The bartender set an opened Corona and lime before him when he sat down, raising a brow at the bouquet in its tapestry-printed tissue paper and ribbons. He himself had wanted to present a bloom or two to some of the prettier athletes the journalist had brought here before, but while Inuyasha may have been affable he was still always all business. Apparently though, not today, given the blush that greeted his silent inquiry.

The bartender was pouring a pinot noir for another guest when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Inuyasha stand and turn towards the restaurant's opening door. As a result, he almost over-poured as he took note of the fresh beauty making an entrance - as if taking center stage, her eyes panning around before alighting upon the journalist at the corner of the bar. After correcting himself and taking payment, the bartender found himself pouring a tiny glass of amontillado, to set it before the young woman who had settled herself at Inuyasha's side, still cooing effusively over the brilliant flowers spilling beyond their tissue confines.

"On the house. And if he doesn't treat you right, you just let me know…" It was worth it to hear Inuyasha's quite audible growl. In any case, he thought he might be living off this story for weeks to come.

----------------------------------

Rin held her hands still in her lap to keep them from trembling. On the one hand, she was thrilled that Sesshomouru was taking her interest in Kohaku seriously enough to be willing to meet him. After all, he _could_ have simply insisted that she cut off all further contact with him. And he would have been perfectly capable of seeing to it that she did so. Rin had no illusions as to her guardian's ruthlessness or thoroughness.

And it was quite reasonable for him to want to meet Kohaku for himself. It might seem a bit old-fashioned, but Rin understood, as perhaps most _natural_ children would not, how seriously Sesshomouru took his role as her guardian. She remembered his stone face after consultations with her doctors, and even more she remembered his presence there both before her surgery and later, when she woke up in the ICU afterwards. She remembered his careful eyes as the hired nurse tended to her arterial line, the tension in those eyes with the endless blood draws to check her liver functions, that single instance of confusion the first time the discharge nurse had gone over the myriad of meds to be dispensed in those early months… His anger when the initially prescribed immunosuppressant had caused seizures that had left her - as she'd been later told by her nurse - breathless and her heart compromised; and his suspicion when the doctors had switched her to a less commonly used drug.

No one else knew how much of that first year after her transplant he had spent in the hospital with her, or how often she had clutched at his hand while her heart thudded against her ribs as she struggled to control her fear of every procedure. She was confident that she had not imagined the pain she'd discerned in those cold, golden eyes that he could _not_ bear this for her.

_This_ was not the man the rest of the world saw, but it was the man Rin had instinctively recognized from their first meeting.

No. Rin did not resent in the least her guardian's concern as to the worthiness of her friends. She just wasn't sure it was something she could ever really explain to anyone else.

Out of old habit, she drew a finger across the broad lines her surgical scars had left across her abdomen. Rin eschewed midriff-bearing fashions, not because she considered her lithe form ugly in any way, but because she had never wanted to be bothered explaining a disease that she had been born with, that had drained her natural family of all their resources for years to the point of finally abandoning her to save themselves, and how she had survived through extraordinary and amazing grace. She had many friends, but none actually close enough for those secrets. Her private schools had allowed her the privacy of personal showers, and her health records were sealed. The myriad of medications had eased off to the single milligram of immunosuppressant twice a day, and physically she was as strong and agile as anyone her age, if a little on the small side. No one knew how much she'd cheered the Olympic contestant who'd also undergone a liver transplant, and how much he'd given her hope as to living a 'normal' life.

Rin remembered well her decision _not _to hide her status as a transplant recipient from Kohaku. They were several weeks into that first seminar, and already in the habit of meeting beforehand for bagels. Rin had been responsible for her own medication for years, but she had not really been surprised when her guardian's major domo had appeared in the hotel dining room to fussily drop the capsule on her unused bread plate, grumbling all the while about her lack of sensitivity to his responsibilities.

She had felt the blush rising up, probably from her navel, and found herself wondering if there would be any delineation of skin tone from one side of the scar to the other. This was, she realized instantly, a means of distracting herself from Kohaku's potential reaction.

The pause had been infinitesimal before he spoke, "Rude ass! Medication is a private thing, and surely if he'd thought about it he could have found a way to remind you of yours more delicately. Pity he's not in the military – I'm sure I could find a way to report him!" Kohaku's smile had been gentle, and he'd dared a wink.

If Rin had admired the young soldier before, it was nothing to her feelings after this statement. Recognizing how much she was risking, she had determined to give him her full trust.

"It _was_ rude, but I know he only did it out of love," Rin waved away when it looked like Kohaku was going to object. "No! Jaken does love me, for all his complaints. Kohauku, five years ago I was on the brink of death. I needed a liver transplant, and there is a _lot_ of care entailed in such a thing. He may not look or act like it, but Jaken took much of that care upon himself. Sure, there were hired nurses, but Jaken never really trusted any of them, and you would have to laugh over how diligently he watched them. I know Sessh pays him to look out for me, but I also know that Jaken did _so_ much more than anyone could ever have been paid to do. It _must _have been love."

She had raised her eyes to face the young man who had already become important to her over such a short period of time. He, too, was blushing, but there was an eagerness to his gaze that was immensely reassuring. It gave her the courage to continue on.

"I have to take meds daily, you know. I always will. Anti-rejection drugs…"

"Anti-rejection… you mean, immune suppressants? But what about other _normal_ infections…" Kohaku's concern was writ large across his features.

"Hey, don't worry so much. Yeah, I'm immuno-compromised. I'm one of those people who are supposed to get flu-shots every year. But hey, the doctors keep a good eye on how much drug is in my system all the time, trying to strike a good balance between rejection of an organ I need and infections I don't. Mostly, it works." Rin shrugged.

"I've actually been healthier than Jaken for the last several years," She whispered conspiratorially. "I don't think he exercises enough."

Kohaku smiled, if a bit weakly. "I find myself suddenly in sympathy with all those 19th Century authors pining away for the beauty of tubercular women. This is not something I'm used to!"

She grimaced. "Do I _look_ tubercular? Didn't I just _tell_ you I'm healthy? Maybe I shouldn't have said anything at all if this is how you're going to act!"

He groaned. "Rin! You look _more_ than healthy, you look divine! Like - like Diana striding across the sky – do I have the right goddess? I'm not sure, my forte is math, after all, but wasn't Diana mistress of the hunt, so yeah, she'd be _tough_…" he chuckled a bit uncertainly, obviously hoping he's hit the right note.

Rin's response was an instantaneous and delighted giggle. She wasn't certain he was being honest as to his actual observations, but he was dead-on as to her concerns. And hell! Here was this sexy post-college man telling her she looked – hmm, could 'divine' be construed as beautiful? Surely he _knew_ her body had been carved up for nasty surgeries?

Without further thought she'd thrown herself into his arms, and offered no objections when, after hesitating bit, he'd let his fingers trail across her form and, finding the scar by the slight divot it made across her skin, shifted his fingers gently beneath her shirt to trace its lines, both along the short vertical and more broadly, horizontally. He had not ventured beyond as they both suddenly remembered where they were.

Even so, his fingers had made her skin dance, and she couldn't help but wonder if the tremble she had felt from _him_ had signaled something beyond trepidation.

He had been so careful in his admiration thereafter that she'd always wondered. Of course, he'd learned her guardian's identity soon enough, and certainly that had been enough to scare away most men. But Kohaku had always remained, asserting himself as her friend always.

Allowing memory to recede, she gazed at her computer screen. Rin realized that what was actually was stopping her from inviting Kohaku to finally meet Sesshomouru was not her concern as to his fear of her guardian. Instead, it was a certain lack of confidence as to his interest in her in the first place. On the one hand, was she dishonoring her friend in expecting him to take up the burden of loving her as a woman? Or, on the other hand, was she devaluing their friendship in not accepting it as sufficient unto itself?

To Rin's eighteen-year-old mind, each of these questions seemed of at least as great moment as Sesshomouru's approval. She saw this as the cusp of a decision as to where her relationship with Kohaku would go next. So what actually remained, at this point, was what mattered most. Was it more important that Sesshomouru be comfortable with her 'potential' if-not-necessarily-inevitable romantic relationship with this young man, or that the two of them remain comfortable with each other? Perhaps subconsciously, Rin knew that introducing her guardian into the equation would only force this decision and complicate matters.

She'd never actively defied Sesshomouru before.


	16. Chapter 17

_A/N: Shit: Less than 48 hours I'll be sitting down for the biggest exam of my life. And here I am writing fan-fic. You guys better appreciate this effort! ^)^ (This is me impersonating a fox)_

_When it comes to disclaimers: Fuck the intellectual property values – do you really think anything I've written belongs to you? (Le'gasp! Trot it up to stress!)_

Chapter 17

He'd managed to spend most of the day keeping Sango on the periphery of his mind. Oh, sure, she was very present in that very uncomfortable meeting with his publisher/editor and his agent – even if they were unawares – and had danced a bit in and out of his lunchtime conversation with Koaga and Inuyasha. After all, they had actually seen her, and must have noted on some level when he'd left the bar with her. But then, he had left so many venues with so many women on his arm that he wasn't wholly surprised that she had failed to make an impact on them.

After all, wasn't that exactly what he had come to believe had been her entire purpose? And he'd actually suspected it from the beginning, although, of course, not for exactly the reasons he'd later decided ruled her motivations. That she was a government spy out for his head, for one reason or another, he was ready to take on faith at this point. Even so, he was not yet ready to reveal his suspicions to his friends. Why? Well, he supposed he would have to admit to himself that she intrigued him.

The sex, of course, had been great. But then, he was all about ensuring that _every_ sexual experience was great. The female form was evidence of the divine in the universe, after all, since there was a more than sufficient showing of hermaphroditic success when it came to reproduction. The logical conclusion was that sex was obviously about much more than reproduction and experience only confirmed this hypothesis. He had been thirteen when he'd first worked through this logical hypothesis, and virtually nothing in his subsequent experimental testing had gainsaid it.

Miroku often thanked his sixth-grade teacher for her strict adherence to the scientific method, and the trust thereby endowed upon the results of rigorous testing. He chortled every time he remembered to add a data point to prove the original hypothesis.

And, for all that he was in fairly severe pain at the time, and for all the effort he had had to put into pretending to be drugged out while hyperaware of her every nerve ending, the sex had been, well, … great. No, not spectacular, and not even superb. He _hadn't_ lost all control to a frantic desire to nail her to his mattress, nor had she whimpered or begged incoherently with her eyes rolled back into her head as she wrought her brain frantically to remember his name before she passed out. He'd experienced _that_ here and there, and looked forward to the next time it would occur. Still, truthfully, _that_ hadn't happened with Sango.

But it _had_ been hot, sweaty, and, once he had got past her initial reserve and reluctance, wonderfully satisfying. She moved with the liquid grace and strength of a panther – at one point he was almost afraid she'd popped his eardrums as her thighs had clasped abruptly, entrapping his head just when he was in the midst of bringing her to what he'd hoped would be a particularly sweet orgasm. A bit later, strength had taken second place to grace as languor marked the steady stroking of her hand as it wove its way from just below one hip up across the small of his back to circle a shoulder-blade before driving spread fingers through his scalp, all while her hips surged against his as they tangoed their way into a comfortable nest among his sheets.

The memory had brought him to arousal numerous times during the day.

Yes, it had been great sex. And as a person she definitely intrigued him. Add to the mix that he was in danger of being imprisoned for treason – a possible life sentence or even capital punishment – and Miroku was not about to overlook the lovely Sango and how she fit into the latest complexities of his life.

Naturally, before she'd left that morning he'd input her number into his cell-phone. Quickly scanning his PDA for conflicts, Miroku hit 'send' to her number, having decided it was not too soon to invite her out for dinner. Bummer that he got sent to voice-mail. Somehow, it didn't seem appropriate to ask her out that way.

--------------------------------

The time was not yet ripe.

That was the only conclusion he could draw from both the reports his agents had compiled and his own analysis.

Only a fraction of InuAmerica's or Taisho Publishing's holdings, were publicly-held. Despite the potential gains of further leveraging, Sesshoumoru had always protested what he considered as too much ownership dilution. Even so, over time and against what most would claim to be an atavistic instinct, the reality was that his ownership in the former had fallen below fifty percent, including his trust holdings.

_Of course_, he owned more than fifty percent of Taisho, and he still easily held thirty-five percent of Inu. In his favor, oddly enough given the times, it was only various banks that held very substantial shares in both companies. With the global recession and banks' particular vulnerability, Sesshomouru had seen an interesting opportunity as regarded his companies' ownership.

It wasn't an accident, of course, that only a few banks held his companies' stock; he had been very careful in the development of straw men's holdings and selective offerings when he'd needed to raise capital over the years. The American markets were awash in commercial offerings, and it was easy to bury attractive offerings here and there over the years that skirted the risk assessments with the more conservative banks, when you knew the right people. Sesshomouru knew everyone.

Or, at least, he let people think that they knew him. And truly, he'd managed to raise enormous capital thereby over the years, and had put it to work quite effectively. For the most part. Pity that news didn't really pay.

Inuyasha was still unaware of the holdings for both companies within the trust his father had set up, of which Sesshomouru was primary trustee. Nothing in the trust agreement required that the trust itself be revealed to the beneficiary and, unlike its American counterpart, nothing in Japanese law required any accounting of trust assets be rendered to the beneficiary. Certainly, he still owed a fiduciary duty to his brother as to the assets' management and the trust's purpose of supporting his brother, but he still had broad discretion in interpreting all this, as long as he continued to keep the other trustees informed and retained their confidence.

At least, until Inuyasha reached the age of thirty and the trust was terminated and its assets assigned to him absolutely, Sesshomouru had full control. Thus, Inuyasha's concerns were, for the most part, a side issue. Even if he didn't owe his brother a duty, Sesshomouru did not like being bested at anything. And that certainly included fortune-building.

It would be a delicate balance. To swoop in now and buy out his family's properties would be preferable, but the simple truth was that he was not quite in a financial position to do so, given his undisputed need to safeguard his own personal holdings. Nor did he want to signal to his competitors either his interest or his concern, so he hesitated as to buying up stock on even a piecemeal basis. Both countries had securities laws requiring publication of purchases by major shareholders. So, until Sesshomouru was ready to take both holding companies private in a single step, it was not wise for him to move.

He had tried buying stock in InuAmerica using Rin's name, and learned that their relationship provided sufficient nexus as to keep the purchase within the SEC's purview. He had found a bit more success in having her purchase Taisho stock, only to be stymied by Japanese regulations regarding foreign purchasers. He had almost burned bridges with two favored law firms in these explorations, and had learned a degree of caution as a result.

Sesshoumoru was appalled that his companies were negatively impacted by the global economy. Only one of his subsidiaries had dabbled in real estate, and that only in commercial properties within Asia. Surely, a growth industry. No toxic securities, no floundering mortgage holders. Except that, with the _global_ slowdown, _all_ commercial interests were likewise crippled. Sesshoumoru hated being dependent in any way on the judgment of others, and that included the health of the overall economy. That his own superb judgment could be undermined by a plethora of idiot investors – or home owners led astray by corrupt real estate brokers – only made him yet less accepting of the democratic process on any level.

Everything in his upbringing had reinforced this concept, and very little in his experience, either at home or abroad, had done much to change his mind.

It didn't help that both countries had anti-dumping and other statutes in place that prevented him from detaching worthless assets or employees without 'adequate' notice, which for market management was as good as binding weights on a sinking ship to hurry its progress. At least in Japan employee protections were largely traditional, as opposed to statutory. On the other hand, tradition was an extraordinarily heavy weight to go against; coupled with labor discontent, and it was more than a sufficient deterrent against excessive corporate action.

Because he was no idiot, he'd taken note of his bastard half-brother's ability to overcome hardship. Largely, he'd passed it off to his family bloodline taking ascendency over degenerate tendencies. Still, the boy had a way of finding surprisingly competent allies, and remarkable fortitude in the face of truly ugly odds.

Sesshomouru might have hired Miroku soley on his own merits; the young man had a track record of publishing with a number of high-end papers, and even at twenty-two had established a following of loyal readers in very marketable zip-codes. Still, his writing merits, even with Kaede's representation – although that was certainly a contributing factor – had not been enough to clinch the deal. It was the apparent evidence that Miroku had taken his half brother under his wing, _without_ knowing his connections, and had somehow managed to free the idiot half-breed from a too close association with the bottom-feeders that always trawled among fallen athletes until there was nothing left to feed upon.

Granted, he himself had done little more when Inuyasha had injured himself beyond sending Japanese orthopedic specialists to his bedside. And Japan was not well known for its medical expertise. Still, what else could he have done?

Inuyasha's elite university already had the best of medical practitioners at his side. He'd searched the web himself – there _were_ no better doctors.

After the first of a very exclusive set of call girls had been thrown out of his hospital room – Sesshomouru had only been following established history in gauging what would comfort his idiot half-brother, but apparently in error. With no particular feeling for his half-brother whatsoever, he never questioned the duties imposed upon him by his father.

And so he had stepped in himself to head up InuAmerica's holdings, including its control of a major North Bay newspaper, when it became evident that his idiot younger half-brother had determined to make a career of publishing.

The thing was, Sesshomouru _liked_ publishing. He _liked_ the control it gave him over the public mind, and the consequential impact on politicians, business paragons and everyone else who wished to hold sway on the public sentiment. When it was done well, he had concluded, it was at least as powerful as an elected position in these new world entities. He had considered it, and honestly fancied himself a modern-day William Randolf Hearst.

But Hearst's strength lay wholly in his newspaper holdings (and willingness to blackmail even the highest government officeholders thereby). Sesshomouru was neither so limited nor so _obviously_ venal. He had manufacturing subsidiaries in Europe and Asia. His mineral holdings in Africa made De Beers look like a community cooperative. The global recession had hit him, and hit him hard. But he was still reasonably sure he was the biggest dog on the global street.

Even he could not overwhelm the U.S. government and its entire economy – although he could easily imagine devising, over time, a corporate conglomerate that could do just that. Sesshomouru was content to abide by the laws of whatever state he operated in. A student of history, he had no desire to rule either people or governments. It was enough for him to make enough money to do whatever it was that he wanted.

To date, he had succeeded. After all, lawmaking and law enforcement was an extraordinarily tedious business.

Sesshomouru found the process and minutia of government boring. It was why he tolerated diverting funds to the legal profession. Even so, he had spent enough time at the head of a major metropolitan newspaper to have learned much about the U.S. Constitution's flaunted 'freedom of the press" guarantee. And like a medieval Samurai, he enjoyed girding his arms against challenges to what he had come to regard as a holy right. And over time he had come to see his primary enemy not as the executive branch of this upstart western government, but rather its judicial branch.

Oddly enough, it was a particular clerk to one Supreme Court justice, a clerk who had spent time with the SEC tracking high-impact securities trading, who for some unknown reason could not eject herself from the myriad, number-based minutia of securities-trading noticed an anomaly in the algorithms she had been tracking – on the side, of course, since the Court's duties took so much of her free time – that fit in with the latest news broadcasts, in a particularly ugly way.

But we are looking some months into the future…

--------------------------------------

As he favored his injured foot, taking the escalator down into the BART/MUNI mass-transit station, Miroku considered the almost total absence of concern or even notice that had been exhibited as to his injury on the part of his coworkers. Oh, the receptionist had noticed when he'd first hobbled in to his meeting with Sesshoumaru and Kaede, and a couple of the staff interns had commented on his pronounced limp – offering to send out for a set of crutches, for example, or to run to the nearest drugstore for a cane.

But neither Inuyasha nor Koaga had bothered to comment on his obvious disability when they all had left the building for lunch. Granted, in the past _he_ had never commented on Inuyasha's occasionally battered appearance – the younger man couldn't seem to go more than a week or two without finding himself in a fight with _some _set of toughs or another. Miroku had long ceased to wonder why… It was enough that he showed up as often as he could to back his friend up. Usually, the threat of an open cell-phone set to speed-dial 9-1-1 seemed to do the trick. And… it also helped that he'd made judicious use of forewarning Koaga – the ex-special forces vet seemed to _miss_ brawling and he _still_ had an intimidating air (although it pissed-off Inuyasha to no end to discover he'd be sharing celebratory victory drinks with the admittedly rather arrogant business writer).

Only occasionally, he'd actually had to join in the mayhem himself. Unlike his athlete companions, Miroku took no particular joy out of pounding others' flesh. While he was generally fairly competent at it, Miroku had had his butt kicked often enough to dread any repeat or even approximation thereof. He fully appreciated the adage as to discretion being the greater part of valor.

Like any kid, he'd faced his share of schoolyard rumbles (to borrow a phrase from a classic stage musical). Yes, there was a certain exhilaration to proving yourself physically superior, but still, Miroku had noted that girls pretty obviously thought fighters were thugs and stupid. So, he had taken up tennis. Despite the power and force brought to the sport from the Sampras/Borg and Agassiz years, an air of elegance still adhered that struck Miroku as the perfect compromise. You got to hit things, and hit them hard, but were given credit for the precision and grace of your stroke. And usually, nobody actually got hurt.

The fact that Koaga was also a tennis player had vindicated his choice some years later, in his own mind. And this was _before_ he'd learned anything of his adversary's military history.

Of course, it was probably the fact that Koaga _also _played tennis that prevented Inuyasha from ever taking up the sport once football was denied him – sad since tennis was how Miroku had first come to know Koaga, and thus how he'd come into Inuyasha's universe . This despite Inuyasha's having become a very mean hand-ball player, despite doctor's orders (he could still be found in pickup rugby games even now). Fully aware of his friend's transgressions, upon graduation Miroku had thought nothing of compounding them, convincing the younger man to wield a wicked squash racquet on more than one occasion. Since their opponents in the doubles tournament were loathe to disclose the identity of the victors, for everyone concerned, this was all good, and they left the East Coast behind with an impressive win-loss record, had anyone actually been keeping score.

Miroku dismissed his friends' apparent lack of concern as to his injury in his general relief at not having to make up a cover story for it. Not that he couldn't do so, and fairly easily, but he had to admit that keeping track of all the lies he had told over the years was a strain. It was usually easier to just admit, after a given amount of time, that he'd lied about whatever it was that presented an apparent conflict with the current situation. An appropriate leer and roll of the eyes usually resulted in no further questions asked. There _were _benefits to having a reputation as a lecher and something of a conman. After all, even his closest friends tended to believe just a bit badly of him anyway, without ever bothering to determine the true extent of his deceptions.

Which probably explained the lack of concern, now that he thought about it. Inuyasha and Koaga probably thought the limp was part of a scam he had cooked up for a story, and he was practicing on them to make his deception seamless. Well. Apparently he was more clever in his friends' estimation than he was in actuality. This idea tickled Miroku as he laboriously worked his way across the underground plaza and down a flight of steps to the appropriate train. Certainly, it was better than having them wonder as to how or whether he had injured himself with his exploits with Sango.

Miroku liked mass transit, and carried the ID cards that allowed him to ride the Bay Area's bus, subway and ferry systems with a minimum of fuss. Which meant, of course, that he kept a sufficient balance on his various transit cards such that he did not have to buy a ticket, but merely flashed his pass to the electronic reader as he passed through the turnstile.

Swallowing an atavistic dislike of enclosed spaces, he boarded the BART train that would take him to Berkeley. He had some research to do that his on-line services simply couldn't match as regards the University of California systems. Wistfully, he thought about the Harvard University Library System. It had been touted as second only to the Library of Congress. Still, could it really beat out the university system of a state with a greater economic output than most third-world countries? To date, Miroku had never found the limits to the UC-Berkeley system, so he'd felt no real worries as far as comparing the east and west coast powerhouses.

As he settled himself into a seat – it was early enough in the day that there were plenty available – it suddenly occurred to Miroku that maybe he'd been stupid to assume that Sango was his only worry. He'd kept half an eye out for her all day, but he hadn't really expected to see her, given the cover story she'd given him and stuck to even as they'd parted that morning. Maybe he was important enough that others would be watching his actions? Scenes from favorite movies started playing through his mind, but somehow he just couldn't cast himself in any starring role; not the classic "Three Days of The Condor" or any of the "Bourne" movies. Obviously, Bond was a joke not even worth telling.

Still, while it did strike him that a guy with a spiky blond 'do and associated piercings was a just a _bit odd_ of person to follow him onto BART from the financial district, the truth was that said nihilist _could_ have easily been a VP at any of half a dozen brokerage houses given that it was, after all, San Francisco, and he should just ignore the itch of incongruity without scratching it. Never mind that such a VP would make a great story – eh, in fact, that was enough to argue _against_ him being a plant, yes? Surely the folks following him knew how likely he was to home in on the unusual, and how much a part of his column these stories were?

The itch was really bugging him now. Oh god. How he wished Mr. Triple-eyebrow-piercing was _not _a spy following so he could engage him in a post-BART cup of coffee and interview! Just as Miroku's caution caved to his journalistic impulses, the man stood up as the train slowed into the next station. Before Miroku's stop.

He almost didn't notice the exchange of glances between the petite conservatively dressed young woman and 'Mr. Piercing' as she stepped on board the train. Actually, he might have missed it altogether if he hadn't already been covertly eyeing the bleached blond

There were, of course, reasons why Ms. Conservative could have had reason to match glances with mr. Piercing, although Miroku found his own brain straining to find any. Perhaps, had Piercing been the VP he'd imagined, and Ms. Dully Dressed had been heading in-bound, the eye-match might have made sense. But she was outbound with him – and past Berkley the business district got more and more casual. So, whereas Mr. Multi-piercing might have been right at home at any number of stops thereafter, Ms. Talbot-suit clearly was out of place.

God. Did these people think he was an idiot?


	17. Chapter 18

_A/N: I'm back and determined to finish all of my stories. This means, all chapter will be shorter than previously exhibited. Um. It also means I plan to pack more into each chapter than previously seen. Yeah. Right. On that note, here is Chapter 18 of "Elegy";_

_DISCLAIMER: No ownership claims, no revenue; no reason for any other claims…_

* * *

Chapter 18

It had been a lovely dinner, really, and not least because she had gotten an opportunity to watch Inuyasha in his own environment. He had probably chosen the restaurant because he knew it well, was comfortable with the food and service, and had never thought before about bringing a woman there as a date. This last was apparent because from the moment she walked to his side she was welcomed easily, with a certain gallantry that bore a closer relationship to camaraderie than flirtatiousness. This was alien to her.

Opera was, after all, highly competitive, and so many more factors were involved than sheer talent that the world of sports could not even imagine it. And it was actually easier long-term to hide ultimate ill-will through false flirtation rather than equally false friendship. Somehow, everyone tended to resent the former less than the latter.

Unless you were part of a resident company – a chorus member, in effect, with little chance at named roles – you had no _sure_ gigs, and every named player in every cast you sang with was a potential contender for your next role. Almost everyone looked for avenues to flesh out income; bit parts in movies and television, the occasional arts festival appearance or singing backup for commercials. A good friend – a chorus member with the San Francisco Opera Company – taught elementary school music classes with the same passion he brought to the stage, and Kagome occasionally did substitute teaching along with her backup singing at the studio. But once you started getting name recognition, that kind of thing was harder given all the time spent on the road. There, every show member was a comrade, yes, but one who might well find a means to stab you in the back later.

But 'Buddy's' was a bit like that old TV show about the neighborhood bar 'where everyone knew your name'. It wasn't a tourist hang-out, and folks came there to do business and enjoy themselves at the same time. Inuyasha evidently did a lot of business there, but mostly because he already knew that the athletes that were his bread and butter tended to hang there.

So, despite Inuyasha's intentions and expectations, their table was almost constantly assailed throughout the evening. Sometimes by up and coming athletes who hoped he'd bring their names to the attention of coaches or fans, or current players who recognized with a wink how he might have helped them along in his short half a dozen years of writing for _The News's _Sports column, and sometimes merely by others inhabiting or tangential to the surprisingly small world of Bay Area journalism. Kagome was too petite to be a budding tennis or golf star, and, frankly, too old for a gymnast or ice skater, so the usual caution as to building professional relationships was easily abandoned.

No one had ever seen Inuyasha there with a … _girlfriend_, so it was only the bartender who had been perspicuous enough to suss out Kagome's true role that night. The regulars assumed she was either an apprentice writer, a 'friend' of Miroku's (that he'd asked Inuyasha to babysit because he had found himself double-booked - an unfortunately not infrequent occurrence - that generally ended in the sportswriter coming clean and everyone present excoriating the morals of the entertainment writer while getting nicely buzzed), or yet another of the seemingly endless attendants upon Inuyasha's Japanese family name that his brother expected him to suitably entertain during their visit to America.

Of course, Kagome could only guess at most of this, but she sensed no hostility to her presence and a surprisingly asexual 'take' regarding her relationship with Inuyasha that was, she thought, wholly out of proportion to (a) her companion's undeniable sexiness, and (2) more profoundly and perhaps more irritatingly, her own appeal. After a while, she found herself confused and, frankly, a bit off-put. There was just a bit too much _friendliness_ in the various pats she'd received – particularly from the females who had wandered by.

Whatever _she_ was thinking, Inuyasha himself couldn't make up his mind at which he was most affronted by – the idea that his friends more easily believed that Kagome was someone Sesshomouru had fobbed off on him or that Miroku had done so, as opposed to assuming she was an honest romantic interest for him. The whole thing reminded him a bit too much of his lunch with his friends and their apparent assumption that he couldn't get a date for himself if they were present. As if Kagome didn't _want _to be with him of her own will.

So it was when they were at the dessert stage of their meal, and she'd passed over a tempting fudge volcano offering for a glass of late-harvest chardonnay, while Inuyasha opted for the crème brule. Yet another patron had clutched her hand with a smile and wink before standing to take his leave…

Kagome had stood also and, dipping a stage curtsy that would have done the Elizabethan court proud, stepped over to Inuyasha's chair and expertly insinuated herself in his lap (hell, she wasn't a stage performer for nothing!). The writer's eyes widened in surprise and his spoon dropped unheeded on the table, but nothing could have matched his expression when she wound one arm around his neck to draw his head down to hers for a far from chaste kiss.

"I'm sorry, my friend, I didn't quite catch your name, or the name of your esteemed colleague. I am sure, however, my dear Inuyasha will explain it all to me later. But, _much_ later, I hope, ne?" She did a slight tilt of her head with a smile that could not be misinterpreted in any language, and their latest interloper found himself backing away from the table in all due haste.

The bartender had luckily caught this little interlude, since there had been a slight lull at the counter, and was quick to make note of said interloper's identity for later retelling. He also found himself liking this little lady all the more, and sent her another glass of the dessert wine on the house.

As they left the restaurant, Kagome caught the bartender's eye, and she returned his broad wink with a demure smile of her own. She liked 'Buddy's'; she liked the food and the clientele, she liked the ambiance and she loved the service. She wanted to come back again.

But when she did, she didn't want there to be any confusion as to her role as Inuyasha's lover.

* * *

It was certainly the spastic response of an amateur spy desperate for more information, but Miroku found himself determined to interview the petite woman sporting Talbot's least flattering and most dated ensemble since he had first noticed that fashion said much more about a person than necessarily the state of their bank account and ego more than a decade ago. After all, Miroku's tendency to interview women in ill-cut or boxy suits was always suspect – it meant he was after something more than his traditional one-night-stand. And certainly, even without the suit, _this_ woman he probably would have overlooked had she not exchanged such speaking glances with the multi-pierced bleached blond male who had caught his notice earlier.

He retained enough self-interest to wait an extra half-beat before getting up for the Berkeley exit off BART; which meant he was able to see her abruptly stand up herself to exit a mere stop after she had first entered. _After _he himself had left the train, but that MIGHT have been beside the issue. Yeah, right...!

Miroku started considering cover stories as he strode through the exit and made his way back to the surface, confident that she was not far behind. The base was easy – he wanted to interview her because she had caught his eye – the only hard part was to explain why. He allowed a small smirk. Sometimes his reputation as a lecher could be very, very helpful. It was the perfect cover. Again, sometimes, all it yielded was a bed partner for the night. Almost as often, he found a fascinating story to report. It had always been, as far as he could see, a win-win proposition.

There was no reason why the people following him – if in fact there were any – would expect him to be trolling for anything unusual, and while his interest was largely consumed by Sango at the moment, well, he had managed to notice that Ms Talbot-duds was actually _quite_ curvaceous, and if she _wasn't _out to get him, didn't that give her a point above Sango?

All he had to do was allow her to get ahead of him, and then follow without any sign of subterfuge. The rest was merely an exercise of charm…

* * *

Koaga had always liked Miroku, even back in their college days when the younger man had gone all out to beat an obviously more athletic and experienced opponent. Miroku had banked on being able to outsmart him, using psychology against him. He'd never realized that Kouga's years in the military had granted him expertise in sizing up opponents beforehand and developing counter strategies. Still, after Koaga had soundly beaten him, Miroku's eagerness to learn from Koaga – he didn't actually remember much of that drunken evening the two had spent 'bonding' – had warmed him to the younger man yet farther.

It was a pity Miroku'd had such a waste product of a roommate.

Koaga had recognized Inuyasha early on. The odd coloring in an ostensibly Japanese national was, after all, a dead give-away, once you got past the possibilities as to colored contacts and hair dye. And Koaga's father hadn't wasted any opportunities to educate his son as to likely business rivals from a dynastic perspective. It was one of the aspects of large-scale mercantilism that had always repelled him and driven him to escape his father's plans for him by joining the military in the first place. Still, it had taken him months to accept Miroku's representations of Inuyasha as a barely recognized family member, let alone an heir being groomed, and had less to do with his acceptance at a prestigious university than his obvious athletic talents and more eclectic academic achievements.

Inuyasha had been hypersensitive to his illegitimate status, and extraordinarily hostile to Koaga for recognizing it without having to be told. It had been all Miroku could do to keep the two from loggerheads while they were all in college. Somehow, when all three had ended up in the Bay Area some years after graduation, the aggression had eased – Koaga and Inuyasha still wielded acid as far as their commentary to one another went, and the competition on the field of romance was very real, but they had each found the other at his back too often in the physical brawls their combative natures made endemic to be really hostile.

Besides, Koaga admired Inuyasha for sticking his middle finger up to his half brother every time Sesshomouru indicated any hesitation as to publishing the younger man's writings. Koaga's market span was much broader – _he_ had a national network of publications willing to pay him, with some thanks owed to both his military contacts and his family.

Inuyasha's contract had no such scope; any marketing had to be done on his own dime. But that didn't stop Inuyasha from protesting at every comma altered, let alone paragraphs dropped.

And much as he preferred Miroku's smooth wit when it came to social occasions, the truth was Koaga'd rather have Inuyasha at his back in a brawl. Miroku was too careful of his reputation and, perhaps justifiably, not quite as confident as to his prowess to leap happily into a confrontation, whereas Inuyasha was actually at his most congenial in a fight, just the way Koaga liked it. Similarly, Koaga also disliked Miroku's writing; it was just a little too smooth and calculated to please his audiences, whereas Inuyasha always wrote from the perspective of the sport itself.

Still, his curiosity was caught on this whole Myanmar business. Too many non-local resources had been put in play for a small, politically insignificant country, for all the brouhaha the international press had given it over the last year or so. No, most of _them_ had been looking for a sensation to attract viewers, and the Buddhist monks' revolt had seemed nicely poised against the Dalai Lama's latest international successes – the man was an international celebrity on an order that almost exceeded the Pope. It meant any incursions against what might be construed as his interests required particular care, indeed.

Miroku's story, instead, had played upon his usual audience's sensibilities as to innate justice. For Koaga, this was a lot of shit, and he knew enough of Miroku's history to be aware that his friend was just as cynical. Miroku was writing for his own dollar, yes, but it wasn't like him to be stupid as to the interests he might be offending and their power. Was he really so blind as to the possible repercussions of a misjudgment?

* * *

"Sango, my dear," General Naraku strolled leisurely into the briefing room where Sango had remained after her meeting with the project team, her laptop conveniently plugged in to a nearby outlet and otherwise running on the doubly-encrypted wireless network. She knew this confrontation had been in the works since the previous night, but she had to admit she still wasn't really ready for it.

"General, my apologies for such a complete failure," There was no point trying to make excuses, she thought, much better to play as honest of hand as possible.

"Not quite complete, dear girl," there was nothing congenial in the smile he offered her. "It would seem you managed to enamor him with your charms, even if you failed to attain his data files." The smile widened a bit, as if in support of her efforts, but Sango felt nothing but chill. This interview, so far, was going exactly as she had hoped, but even so she felt her heart hammering in her chest as if in an effort to send warmth to her frozen extremities.

"Sir, you were right; there is _more_ to him than our analysts had surmised. At this point, rather than introducing new agents into the situation, the project manager believes I should continue to probe my connection with Miroku to gain as much information as we can before terminating the exercise."

Naraku's eyes' narrowed a bit. While it was like Sango to share credit with others, she had to know that he had observed the project meeting and was aware that it was her own tactical agenda that had been adopted. Was she really so selfless as to neglect this opportunity to promote herself, or was she _that _confident in his ability to see the reality of operations carried out under his name? No, Sango _was _that much smarter than her brother; she would never admit to being aware of his surveillance, and so never claim credit for a coup she'd already decided to share with others. She would expect him to be aware of that on his own.

* * *

Ah, he found himself quite infatuated with this girl. She was remarkably clever, and even more physically adept. From the moment she had fallen into the military's childhood protective services, along with her brother, every aspect of her being had been under scrutiny. It hadn't been long before that scrutiny had been pretty much exclusively his own. And as she shifted from puberty through adolescence and young adulthood, he had found himself more and more enthralled.

Her military service had only served to cement this fascination, although he had to admit he found himself a bit concerned as to the general lack of self-interest she'd exhibited throughout her training and missions to date. As near as he could tell, her younger brother was her only Achilles' heel, and that would have to be a card he carefully played in order to gain the most value out of both of them.


	18. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

Classical music being the standard for background ambiance here and in many such venues anymore, a recording of Beethoven's _Appassionato_ was seeping into patrons' consciousness as they ordered their drinks – a soothing counterpoint to the caffeine shot promised by the menu. Miroku ordered a latte without looking away from his prey in her ill-fitting suit, none of his distaste for her garb detracting from the innocent admiration that bathed his features as she questioned the _barista_ as to roast options, country of origin, etc. Miroku'd done a story on coffee drinks back in college – years after he'd gotten hooked on _café_ _con leche_ at the monastery – and found his eyes glazing over a bit. Back then he could have joined enthusiastically into a discussion as to the proper elevation/moisture gradient and harvest factors for the ideal coffee bean, but more than half a decade and a virtual lake's worth of consumption later, all he retained was a preference of French roast over any other, and the realization that his own taste was insufficient to discern even this if more than cream was added.

Actually, he retained bits of every story he'd written, but often these were the least important bits. He could recite the frequency of certain allele patterns in eye color, for example, but couldn't cite where they fell within the races. In this case, his sense of whimsy was caught by her hesitation over Italian vs. French roast, given she wanted it served as a mocha. Granted, he wouldn't have cared less, but would even an aficionado have tasted the distinction buried beneath milk and bitter chocolate? Was her taste that acute. Or was she merely just _that_ nervous about her quarry turning the tables upon her.

Miroku slipped easily into 'interviewer' mode, which for him included (among others) several degrees beyond merely hostile or friendly distinctions, such as just how seriously he also considered his subject sexually. Talbot never really had a chance (especially as she had here-to-date served only as an analyst for the agency and this was her first field assignment, although, of course, he couldn't have known that).

She was aghast to discover an hour later that not only had she confided to Miroku that her real interest was in the sociological impacts of religious differences on political movements – rather than the venture capital funding of tech enterprises that had been given as her cover considering the general tenor of the geographic area of this part of the subway – but that she had given him her actual home telephone number. She didn't even want to _think _about what else she might have inadvertently told him.

Truly, he was gifted with a silver tongue!

As the man himself entered a major branch of the UC library system, instantly making his way to the office of a reference librarian who had proven both friendly and very helpful in the past, Miroku considered what he had learned from the woman with a lousy dress sense but quite lovely breasts, once you got in a position to view them at the appropriate angle. He also considered the likelihood of his ever being in a position to get a better view of said breasts. She was a much easier venue than the lady Sango, and also much less threatening. If he really wanted to know why he was being targeted by whatever government agency they almost certainly both worked for, Talbot was more likely to render up all she knew. Trouble was, Sango also probably knew a hell of a lot more than Talbot.

And he'd already slept with Sango. Not to mention, he'd _liked _it very much, thank you, and already had hoped to repeat the performance when he wasn't experiencing excruciating pain to distract him. Of course, he'd also like to be assured that he would survive the experience, and that it wouldn't land him in federal prison.

"Marianne, _ma belle_! I'd like to take advantage of the library's more exotic subscription services. Do you think you could help me…?" A white-haired, somewhat rotund woman of uncertain years slapped away the arms that reached to embrace her, but she allowed the journalist to place an affectionate kiss on her brow as she drew him into her office.

------------------------------

She stopped in a Thai place to pick up some take-out – a favorite curry and something with prawns and peanut sauce – because Thai always worked as an escape from memories in general. Sango had made a point of always eating Thai food alone. Proust had been right – the sense of smell was extraordinarily powerful when it came to evoking memory, and Sango had become very cautious as to memory, given how many she had loved and lost.

She saw Miroku's email, and easily deduced that he had wanted to ask her out, probably for dinner. Well, she'd gotten his call rather late in the day and, frankly, she was fairly sure she wasn't yet up to seeing him again, despite her earlier calculation as to the 'appropriateness' of being the first to call. Said calculation, of course, no longer of merit anyway since he had beaten her to it.

The Department of Defense rented any number of apartments in San Francisco after giving up its interest in the Presidio properties. After all, there were still many service personnel that required housing… But Sango's temporary digs weren't one of the usual DoD apartments, since some level of secrecy was assumed in everything she did. She had a place out in the 'Sunset District', mostly because it gave her parking and a fairly anonymous setting. It _was _kind of a bitch to get to with public transport, however. Still, Sango didn't complain. Public transit was generally a good place and time to think, although the risk of surveillance was always a bit higher. Out of habit, she'd run her usual check even as the bulk of her mindset had been focused on Miroku. It was almost with a sense of relief that she'd noticed one of the patrons in the Thai restaurant get off at her stop and follow her up the stairs. The general wouldn't have been himself if he wasn't having her followed.

Sango had assured herself as to the placement of all cameras and listening devices planted throughout her apartment in the first two hours of her residency. She hadn't bothered to disarm them, since she had nothing to hide. It was purely an exercise.

Tonight, as she set out her dinner on the kitchenette counter, opening drawers for cutlery and slamming cupboard doors for a plate, she allowed herself to swear in annoyance just to reassure those listening to her that all was normal. As she heated dinner in the microwave, she cruised cable offerings for something – preferably loud – that would hold her attention for a while, even as she logged her laptop into the building's wireless network.

The password protection was on the lease agreement, and Sango was fully aware that any novice hacker could be on her laptop through this network in a heartbeat. Which was fine. Kohaku had devised a beautifully simple algorithm that had proved remarkably effective in defeating even the most determined hacker, all by disguising the outgoing signal as digitally-translated radio waves of existing easy listening stations, randomly alternated with buffered feed-ins for locally requested porn programs. The outgoing signals simply piggybacked the porn buffer requests, queued to alternate with any of a minimum of three portal-to-portal wireless network signals on yet another randomly generated basis. In an urban environment, you could count on at least two wireless computer connections seeking each other out at any given time, and Kohaku's algorithms took advantage of this certainty.

Sango had yet to track any particular delay in this extra-curricular internet traffic she and Kohaku had devised.

She smiled as she ran the deciphering program Kohaku had sent her last week, all the while remembering to comment appropriately to the 'chic-flic' she'd downloaded on-demand. She poured herself a glass of the cheap _chinen blanc_ she'd picked up with her take-out, and settled herself down before the t.v. with the laptop on the coffee table next to her dinner.

What kind of family had to communicate in cipher every time they said 'I love you' or 'I'm leaving D.C. for San Diego'? Well, then. Hadn't _she_ been the one to teach him the need for secrecy in the first place? Kohaku had been in middle school when Sango had joined the Special Forces, with a promise of college credit along the way.

Well, _along the way_ actually had meant a lot. Sango couldn't actually claim a single degree to her name, but she'd fulfilled the core requirements for a couple of engineering degrees 'along the way': She was more than proficient in areas of fluid dynamics, structural mechanics, and a host of other less obvious studies that would – and had –served her in times to come. Her close-combat skills were second to none. And, through her brother, Sango had learned more than a smattering of computer logic.

She was a thoroughly modern warrior.

------------------------------------------

Naraku shifted the printed reports along the LED display showing an active reading of the eastern seaboard. Active, meant, of course, all known threats and/or confirmed actions against regions circumscribed by a particular geographic region.

Any idiot knew that the first line to crippling the United States was the Eastern States, particularly the area that comprised the District of Columbia and its immediate environs. Any reasonably intelligent sociopath would target this area of the county – take out the government and take out the country…

Of course, any idiot would also realize that after 9-11 the U.S. banking industry was no longer centered in New York – Chicago and L.A. were only the most _obvious _buffer zones; Atlanta's vulnerability during the mortgage panic had proven both the efficacy of decentralization and its weaknesses. Naraku smirked in satisfaction. The adage as to "following the money" was no less true in reality than it was on the silver screen. Kohaku was still refining the tracking software that the twin catastrophes of terrorist attack and financial meltdown had made possible, thanks to demands for "transparency". But already at the click of a mouse button Naraku could determine the most active – and thus most vulnerable – areas of economic activity in the country.

It wasn't only the idiots that assumed power in America was centered in the legislative halls. But really, the sophisticated all knew that real power rested in the hands of those who could control the flow of funds. Astonishingly enough, most of those who'd held such power had used it merely to continue to enrich themselves. Apparently, greed did not equal megalomania or the desire to control everything. Well, for those who _did_ desire such control, this was a _good_ thing.

Equally astonishing, most of those in the remaining bastion of power – the military – were also driven by duty and responsibility to others. Look at his own attaché; Kohaku had been thankful to a society that had, initially and in secret, protected and educated his sister and him after they had followed their father's instructions to flee their home country, even after their father had disappeared. Afterwards, when their illegal status had been discovered and they _hadn't_ been deported, Kohaku's gratitude had merely compounded, to the point that he had applied to and been accepted at Annapolis. The naïve boy had never questioned why he and his sister hadn't been deported, or whose voice had been decisive in his recommendation for acceptance into one of the most competitive collegiate institutions in the country. None of which mattered, of course. What mattered was that the boy felt a duty to return the grace that had been granted him.

Of course, Kohaku's sister had also been remarkably talented – far more than their father, whose primary gift had been one of inspiring trust in those who followed him, while being merely a very competent soldier overall. Kohaku himself had a beautifully organized mind, even more so than his sister. The siblings had been a carefully calculated investment following their discovery in the U.S. after their father's death in the 9-11 attack on the Pentagon. Sango had repaid that already several-fold, ever since he had recruited her just out of high school in southern California.

Kohaku showed even greater promise, but he _was _showing a rather disturbing interest in the application of ethical considerations to purely military concerns. Naraku would have to do something about that.


End file.
